Rejection Slip By Death
“do you want to die, motherfucker?” he
asked as he pointed a handgun on my head.
“yes,” I said. “pull the fucking trigger, please.”
it was a drug deal gone bad, and I was
impressively enough an innocent bystander.
I was simply known as a drug user
and cooker of meth and crack, so
the poor bastard got confused.
“pull the fucking trigger,” I repeated, as he
hesitated, his hand shaking.
“do you want to die, motherfucker?” he
repeated in a quivering voice.
“yes, you goddamn faggot,” I said, trying to push him.
he didn’t have the balls to pull the trigger.
“I’m sorry,” he whimpered.
“you fucking sissy,” I spat in exasperation. I had almost
seen the light, I had almost been reunited with Emily,
and the motherfucker had refused me
my greatest wish.
“I can do it,” he tried to threaten me.
“don’t tell me, show me.”
“I can’t. I know who you are.”
“shit,” I groaned,
“you can have an 8ball for free. a gift, so
you won’t have people killing me.”
“fine,” I said. I was glad for
the free 8ball of junk.
I was upset about being known enough
not to be killed. I’d done something
wrong in my life.
took the 8ball home.
burned the whole thing on a spoon,
shot it.
it didn’t kill me.
the guy died a couple of months later.
got stabbed.
I’m still alive, ten years later.
life’s not fair. and I
raise a toast to life, the meanest bitch there is.
