Did you ever see something and suddenly your life changed. You aren't looking for a change. You're miserable but content in your misery. If I'd taken a nap like I'd planned, I would be in my bedroom in the house I inherited when my mom died, cruising employment pages looking for a job.
Instead I watched a very interesting documentary on 'suicide by cop'. Apparently there is a certain sort of criminal. That lacking any way out of the mess they've made does something to make the cops kill them.
My first instinct is to act like this is some protest, or some demented art, but it's not. I want to die. I want to take as many people with me as I can. I don't hate the average citizen and if I'm going to be honest I don't know why I've decided to do this. The likelihood that I'm going to score chicks with this plan is pretty minimal, I'm not even using my real name.
All you need to know is I'm going to kill one person every day until someone stops me. I decided to do this because today is my thirty-ninth birthday and I absolutely refuse to turn forty. I felt old at twenty-one, by twenty-eight I felt my life was over. Today I can hardly look at myself in the mirror. I'm disgusting.
I noticed today I'm losing elasticity in the skin on my neck. I'm starting to get those wrinkles that go across. There are only a few so far, and I have to hold my head right for you to see them. But I know they're there.
As I walk down the street I fantasize that I'm Edward Norton in American History X. I just want to make people bite the curb and stomp on their necks and kill them. Lately though, in these fantasies It's not a clean break with the first stomp. They break their teeth or their jaw, and I have to keep stamping and kicking to kill them. Blood pouring out of their mouth from the broken bone tearing their flesh. I want to be an efficient killer, an angel of death. But in these fantasies the worse it is and the longer it takes the more I like it.
I don't mean it turns me on when I say I like it. I'm not like that. I mean I get a feeling of satisfaction from taking care of these people, getting rid of them. There are too many people.
I know I have to just do it if I'm going to do it. The first one's always the hardest. I guess, if I'm honest, that's just a cliche to me.
I worked up my nerve and called the pizza place, and put a baseball bat behind the door. When the delivery guy came I almost scrapped the whole thing. This was not my regular pizza guy. He said his name was Steve. For a moment I wondered if this was God trying to tell me this was a bad idea. As soon as I thought that though, I knew that it was a message from God. But it wasn't saying to quit. It was warning me that if I was committed to doing this there would be days when I couldn't get the person I wanted and I would have to take what I found.
I told Steve I didn't order any pizzas. When he asked if he could use my phone to call his supervisor I opened the door wider and invited him in.
Steve said this was his first day on the job.
I'm five foot eight and two hundred and seventy-five pounds. My belly hangs over my pants and I get tired pretty easily. But I also am strong enough last month when I replaced my washing machine I nonchalantly threw the old one up on my shoulder and walked it a few blocks to the landfill. When I picked up the bat beside the door and swung it at the back of Steve's head, his skull not only shifted but it bent so much a little piece of bone pinged off the edge of the wound and almost hit me in the eye. He still didn't drop right away. Even though I was swinging with all my weight behind it and aiming for the same place each time it took four swings and three solid tags before he stayed down. He dropped the moment before the third swing connected and that one only glanced off the edge.
He kicked and twitched and lost control of his bowels, just like I expected. But I was planning to clear out Steve's pockets and hit the road in my van, so I didn't worry about cleanup.
Steve had thirty seven dollars. Jerk.
Still, free pizza.
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