Mouse Pad

 George had always been terribly keen on dodging the grim reaper, but he drew a remarkably firm line at the traditional avenues. Vampirism was out—he simply couldn’t abide the coppery tang of the stuff, and besides, he was a terrible host at dinner parties. As for zombification, the whole "lacking a brain" business felt like a dreadful career move, particularly given his ambitions in middle-management.
Enter Professor Higgins-Smythe, a man whose lab smelled powerfully of boiled cabbage and questionable life choices.
"Immortality, George, is entirely within your grasp," the Professor declared, adjusting a pair of spectacles held together by insulating tape and quiet desperation. "No fangs, no groaning, no shuffling about in damp churchyards. Science has found a way."
"Marvellous," George said, dabbing his brow with a somewhat damp handkerchief. "Does it involve a lot of paperwork? I’ve never been good with forms."
"Better than paperwork, my boy. We shall digitize you. We take your skeletal essence, compress the JPEG, and print your very bones upon a promotional ergonomic mouse pad."
George blinked. "A mouse pad?"
"State-of-the-art," the Professor beamed, tapping a piece of foam rubber that looked as though it had survived three successive prime ministerial scandals. "You achieve infinite existence, completely impervious to the elements, provided no one spills their PG Tips directly over your lumbar region."
Before George could properly weigh the pros and cons—chiefly whether being a desk accessory would interfere with his Tuesday bowls—the Professor had already flicked a switch on a contraption that hummed like a stricken fridge.
A flash of violet light, a faint smell of singed toast, and it was done. George was gone.
Six weeks later, the mouse pad sat squarely on the mahogany desk of one Arthur Pendelton, a man who worked in local government and possessed the riveting charisma of a wet Tuesday in Slough.
George was dimly aware of his new surroundings through the medium of wrist support. It was, all things considered, profoundly tedious.
I say, Arthur, George projected mentally into the void, though his voice only registered as a faint, oily smudge beneath a sweaty wrist. Could you possibly shift two inches to the left? You’re pressing rather uncomfortably into my pelvis.
Arthur did not hear him. Arthur was currently attempting to decipher a planning application for a very controversial roundabout in Basingstoke. Instead, he dragged a dusty optical mouse back and forth across George’s ribcage with relentless monotony.
Right, that’s it, George thought, gritting non-existent teeth. If he tries a double-click on my left scapula again, I’m locking up the spreadsheet.
True to his word, when Arthur tried to open an Excel document at 4:54 PM, George exerted every ounce of his digital afterlife to freeze the computer entirely.
Arthur groaned, slamming his palm against the desk. "Bloody Windows 98," he muttered, giving the mouse pad a sharp, dismissive slap.
Mind the gel wrist-rest, you absolute rotter, George mentally retorted, though a grim sense of satisfaction washed over him.
Immortality, he decided, staring up into the flickering glare of a fluorescent office bulb for all eternity, wasn’t quite what the poets made out. But at least it beat the alternative—he hadn't smelled a single drop of blood all week, and the tea trolley came past at precisely half-past ten.