Bill Fury dead in '83 by Terrence Doyle

I was born exactly two years after Bill Fury, an actor whom
I've never heard of, died of heart failure at the age of 42. January 28, 1983—Bill Fury is watering
plants, or eating a sandwich, or making freshly squeezed orange juice or
lemonade. Something with citrus, surely. He takes a sip, chokes down a seed or
two, and smiles.

"That must be the freshest orange juice or lemonade man
has ever known."

Bill Fury's dog, which we shall refer to as Fido or Charles,
barks at a mailman. A plane flies high over Fury's home. The grass in his front
yard forces itself from the earth, mere fragments of a millimeter at a time.

Bill Fury, his thirst slaked, his hunger curbed, sits down
on his couch to watch the latest episode of '21 Jump Street' (Fury had both a
time machine AND a TiVo—Fury was, needless to say, a man of myriad wisdom).

Johnny Depp, a heartthrob if not a deity, enters stage left.
Richard Grieco, slick hair, despondent, smokes a cigarette while Depp fingers
through a document. Bill Fury's heart flutters, and, soon afterwards, fails.

This is the year of the silver anniversary of Master Fury's
tragic end. This is the year of discontent.