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Pork-chop pulls the gun out of my mouth, its barrel soaked from the stay. “Arf arf arf arf ar arf?” He barks.
“I can’t think of anything, Pork-chop.” I spit. Blood is caked around my head. Memories are sizzling inside it like eggs on a Texas sidewalk. Mr. Dink’s brain spilling out onto the floor of my parent’s kitchen. The chanting that followed, all about him, his name. “His name was Bud Dink,” they said. Masturbating into mayonnaise at the Honker Burger. Shoving a gun to the back of Phoebe’s skull, telling her that if she doesn’t get on the way to being a doctor in 24 hours she’s going to die. Good times.
Old times.
Everything is old now. It’s old because it’s dark in Mr. Bone’s office. It’s old because of the sixteen minutes I have until the nitro goes up. It’s old because my alternate personality is a tiny gray dog that communicates only in vaguely understandable barks. I think that means I’m a furry.
It also means that he can’t hold a gun. The gun has to be... in my hand.
I recognize the weight in my hand, the sexy curve of the metal grip, even though it’s been there the whole time. Pork-chop lights up a cigarette, eyeing me coolly from across the room. “Arf arf. Arf arf arf arf.”
“No, Pork-chop,” I stand up. Cold sweat runs down my brow like anti-freeze. “It ends here.” I jam the gun between my gums again.
Pork-chop raises an eyebrow. He knows I don’t have the guts to do it. I’m just a kid, writing in my journal about my obsession of the day. Living half my life in powerful fantasies about spies and superheroes. I can’t do it. I’m frozen by own inadequacy. Impotent.
I close my eyes, and pull the trigger.
My jaw is torn off in a Chinese dragon smile as the bullet hurtles through the bone and meat that was my face. I hit the ground, the yodeling equipment strewn around the office swirling in my eyes.
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In my father’s house are many mansions.
When I pulled the trigger, I hit the floor as meat. Dead. An object devoid of thought and energy.
Liar.
I went to heaven. Where god sits behind a big oak desk and tells me we’re all beautiful and unique snowflakes. No, I say. That’s wrong. We aren’t unique and beautiful, but we aren’t crap or trash either. We just are.
God says that’s wrong. And god writes about me in his journal as the angels lead me out of the room. I can almost see god click off his light, and whistle in the darkness.
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