On death.

Death is a funny thing.

It's like magic.

We're here. Then poof. We're gone.

Imagine what it was like for the first organism to experience death.

The amoeba. He must've been like, "Oh shit! Oh shit! I'm... fading away!

What the hell is this sensation!? Aaauughhh! Oh Amoeba God, make it stop!"

And then, after a fierce protoplasmic death rattle, it's gone. Poof. Magic.

Maybe his amoeba buddies gave him a proper burial, dressed him up in a little black outfit and placed him in a tiny casket.

Actually, no. They all must've been freaked out.

It was the First Death Of Anything Ever. They were probably like, "Dude, what happened to Fred?" as they watched his lifeless single-cell body float off in the primordial ooze, nary a trace of the jubilance and zest for life he once displayed.

Maybe they thought it was cool. Maybe they were like, "Wow. Check out Fred. He's all frozen!

That's so weird! I want to be dead too! I want to be dead like Fred!"

Fred probably started the whole Goth thing.

In his wake, he inspired countless other single-cell organisms to be sullen depressives, moping around, wearing little amoeba boots with huge buckles on them, putting on too much mascara and singing songs from My Chemical Romance.

So it's all Fred's fault.

Fred the Amoeba: Inventor of Goth.