oats and crowbar 5, 10, 20 years from now

5 years: oats is industriously painting, drumming and drawing tattoos. pod is chasing down central bankers and government leaders they do not live in the same city
10 years: oats is broke, moves in with pod, who now pays a mortgage on a flash flat in hong kong with maude, who has sired 20 pups and is a great-grandmother twice over
20 years: hong kong was eaten up by smoke, pod is executive editor of Time Out New York and she and oats are living off of comps in the village. they own a dive bar in nyc and a biker bar in SF and divide their time between the two, which both sport rocking chairs, and spend holidays in tuscany

OR

5 years: still here. still in rome. natch. sat opposite each other. number of fegolas in their inner circle: tripled. dogs: the ever-loyal and now sterile maude. bf: none gf: none. shags: bi-annual. regular meetings: AA on wednesday nights. smoking: like chimneys. weight: stable

10 years: oats has finally got her shitt together. designing tats and getting paid for it, a novel concept. a chance encounter with jeremy fish has got her into the underground biz and she moonlights between NY, SF and Rome. Her hair is down to her ass. she now has 20 tats. and owns a motorbicycle. she's an outspoken critic
of the death sentence and takes her message around the world. a poor man's angelina. if you will. crowbar has gone awol somewhere in asia. every so often she resurfaces with a cryptic message.

20 years: oats. she lived fast. she has to die young. craddled in her darling crowbar's arms she sighs and whispers her last words: either that tat goes or i go. refering to a hideous ring crowbar got on her finger, after taking vows with her second gf in 20 years. i know, i know, crowbar mumbles in a flood of tears and loud gulping sounds. you sure know how to pick em', oats says. i know, i know, pod replies. elliot smith is playing in the background. shall we, oats says. go on then, crowbar cooes back. just as they're about to hang/stab each other. oats says: ``i have one!'' crowbar, pipes up: ck! oats: that's the one! they die at the ripe old age of 101. 2 minutes apart.