Stop the World and Let Him Get Off

Got one of those phone calls from a sibling today -- the oldest of my three brothers. The alcoholic one. Also the pot smoking one. He hardly drinks anymore because he lacks the money. On the other hand, I'm not sure what he's smoking. Regardless, he might be dry, but he's still an alcoholic. And a dope head. With a Stanford law degree.
          Would I please call back because this former golden child was making arrangements for the end of his life as we know it and wanted to be sure there was a place for his ashes in the family plot. I called back and asked if my dying relative would be exiting the world soon, thinking perhaps we were dealing with an aggressive form of cancer. I even had a moment, however brief, of sympathy.
          "No, I'm not dying; I'm being murdered," I was informed.
          "When is this happening?" I asked, curious but no longer concerned.  
          "It's happening now."
          "Even as we speak? How?"
          "Microwaves."
          "Microwaves?"
          "From directed-energy weapons." I should mention he wasn't drunk or stoned when he told me this.
          You can read about the latest iteration of aluminum foil hats HERE.
          But knowing the person at the source of this little drama, I realized that the years of Kahlua and coffee with a side of hash were the real murderers, rendering what was left of his brain and personality unto mush, one doobie and liter of hootch at a time. He continued to give me the details of his impending demise, describing a prowler who showed up at night outside the place where he lives [which is one step up above a cardboard box], but disappears when he goes outside. Apparently his activism [not sure about what] has upset some woman who sent the prowler to beam microwaves through the walls at his head and body.
          "I am having a lot of symptoms now. My stomach hurts and I have headaches."
          "How much time do you have left?" I asked, pretending I cared.
          "About thirty days."
          "Thirty days, huh. And what happens if you live beyond thirty days?" I couldn't let that one go. But I didn't finish the thought, which would have been expressed as, "Will you consider that you've got full blown paranoia at that point? And have yourself confined for your own safety and the safety of everyone in a five state region?"
          Such a shame we have no choice in the relatives we get stuck with. And another shame the death penalty won't ever be applied to my brother's pedophile cub scout leader.
          While we're at it, a hearty headbutt to all you people who think marijuana should be legalized.