Larry cracked a beer as the light from the thrusters of the last ship to leave Earth faded in the sky. The other light, the one of the comet that was going to destroy everything, was getting brighter, but there was no way he was leavin’. Nosiree. He was 92 and he wasn’t like to see that spiffy new Mars they’d been buildin’ anyway, so he just sat back in his rocker, sipped his beer, and figured to enjoy the next nineteen days until the comet hit.
“Yessir,” he said to no one in particular. “I’m livin’ the dream, man.”
I always find something a bit fascinating about people who make the rational choice to accept the death they know is coming rather than keep going.