Read this disclaimer first!!
Thursday, Mar. 13, 2003 - 2:10 p.m.
Bullet

Please don't be too alarmed from this entry. It's just an expression of frustration. Don't read too much into it, okay? I hate having to put these disclaimers up.

The gun is a classic six-shooter revolver, fully loaded. It's small, especially in my big hands. It was cold, and black. It was heavy in my hands, but not that heavy. Just enough to let me know, vaguely, that I was doing something serious, but light enough to permit me to continue to not care.

I hate him and want him to die. So I walk up behind him as he's sitting there, grab his hair in cold anger, and pull the trigger as casually as I would squeeze a bottle of ketchup for my fries. It makes a "POP!" sound, like on TV, or in a 30s gangster movie. "POP!", it goes, right in the indentation in the back of his head.

His head surprisingly lurches back against my hand, instead of away from it; I have to push it back down. Blood bone and brains-the three B's-spray out onto the desk he was working at. The entry hole is neat and perfect. Nice. The exit is far less orderly; it's larger and jagged.

I don't even begin to care about him. He's wasted my time, my life, for the last time. Fuck him, he's gone. But as though in a final fuck-you to me, he has the nerve to cover my clothes with the three B's. I can't even get these dry-cleaned. I have to burn them. That fucker. I hate him and I'm glad he's gone.

My friend dreamed up a scenario where there's this guy in a society that is just like ours on the surface, with one exception: at the age of 18 you are given a special gun with a special, identifiable bullet. It's not only your right, but your responsibility to use that Bullet on anyone, no questions asked. If a person dies from one of these Bullets, there's no investigation, just a burial, and resigned acceptance. If I were in that world, he'd be getting the Bullet. For damn sure he would be getting the Bullet. Ten years I've been waiting for the right time to use my Bullet, and he's the guy that gets it.

POP!~~

0 scrawls at the end of this hall

The look: unbelievably, unabashedly, exasperated
The feel: pissed
The taste: full of sweet vengeance
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