Josey continued to scream and holler at the top of his lungs while running the thoughts through his head.
Should I kill myself!
Should I not kill myself!
Josey didn’t recite Hamlet’s speech in his head, but it resembled it. Hamlet’s speech is in no way special; it is what all humans who kill themselves say in their heads while deciding to pop a cap in their face.
Josey didn’t know Hamlet’s speech either.
He went to college but didn’t know shit about literature, painting, or classical music.
He didn’t care, why should he?
A lot of people have read Hamlet and continued to kill themselves.
People committing suicide always make some kind of fantastic wager like if there is a shooting star in the next five minutes I won’t hang myself from this tree, or if the wind blows east I won’t do it.
I assume Josey thought of a similar concept.
He was probably like, “If the next car is blue, I won’t kill myself.”
Well, the next car that passed was blue, but he still wanted to kill himself.
He screamed in horror!
Bitched!
Smacked the dashboard!
Punched his own face!
Moaned!
Screamed!
But there was no answer.
Josey was out there alone.
Alienated disfigured!
Alone!
Full of violence!
Other people seemed like aliens, non-humans, beasts.
He pulled the van over to the side of the highway.
He picked up his shotgun, loaded one bullet, and stepped out of the van.
Went over to the side of the van.
Put the gun in his mouth.
What are the very last thoughts of a person who actually kills themselves, who actually does it knowing there is no escape from the choice they have made. I don’t know.
I’m not going to assume that I know either. I’m not an asshole.
Well, he had the end of the gun in his mouth.
And BLAST!
Nothing happened, Josey died, that was all.
A huge hole was in the back of Josey’s head.
Josey no longer moved.
His heart stopped.
His thoughts stopped.
Nothing remained of Josey.
No more fun for Josey.
No more dancing.
Sex.
Drinking.
Partying.
Good times.
Goals.
Self-help quotes.
Movies.
Hunting.
Golf.
Music.
Work.
Tying his shoes.
Putting on his shirt.
Taking showers.
Swimming.
Conversations.
Needing to impress anyone.
Caring what other people think about him.
Needing to sell his labor to cheap no-good assholes.
Assholes.
Family.
Need to hope.
Lottery tickets.
Police.
Prostitutes.
Saying cheese when taking pictures.
Christmas.
Easter.
Fourth of July.
U.S. Presidents.
Religions.
Computers.
Prime-time sitcoms.
No more.
No more.
No more.
Josey died, and the world went on without him.
I don’t know if he has a tombstone. I’ve never been to his grave.
Perhaps it is unmarked.
It should be.
It should say:
Here Lies an Outlaw.
Because that is what he was in his last years: an outlaw.
I think he was a drug runner for the Mexicans.
Don’t know though, but that’s everybody’s guess.
His heroes were from the movies like all good American kids. A lot of outlaws; moonshiners were his favorite. Being a moonshiner wasn’t in big demand when he became an outlaw, but drugs were, and that’s what he did.
*
My mother always said to me, “Monco, when starting a book, always start with a suicide, a murder, or a rape.”
So, I started the book with suicide; it’s her own son’s, so I hope she’s not mad. But since I had the chance of impressing her by using her advice I did it anyway.
I hope she is very happy with this first chapter.
A NERVOUS MAN
My girlfriend and I were eating dinner. Her name is Delphine. She is pretty, nice clear skin, long legs, big ass, and giant green eyes.
The dinner was Mexican Hamburger Helper. We put taco cheese and chips in it to make it better. Otherwise it is practically inedible.
Delphine: “I saw Jeff today at school.”
Monco: “What’d he say?”
Delphine: “He said he couldn’t come out with us anymore because his counselor said he needed to relax. So he has to do twenty minutes of exercise before going to sleep.”
Monco: “Is that so?”
Delphine: “He also said he was going to sit in his room for three weeks and take pictures of random objects with perfect lighting. Then he burped, and it smelled like balogna death, and he left.”
A BLOODY NEW YEAR’S
I think it was New Year’s. It must have been.
Well, I went to the bathroom. First I must tell you at Christmas this kid named Vito came over and cooked the thickest goddamned alfredo I’ve ever eaten. It almost killed me it was so thick. Best alfredo I’ve ever eaten, though.
Well, I ate the shit.
And because I was drinking I forgot to take a lactaid.
When I consume any milk products, I get constipated.
It sucks.
I forgot to take the pill and I had a death-of-god shit the next day. It almost killed me.
I pushed and pushed and pushed and only a little turd came out.
For the next several days the same experience, pushing and pushing and pushing only to squirt out one little meaningless bullshit turd.
That day I was on the toilet for over two hours.
No luck.
Just pain.
The shit was compacted in my stomach and it hurt like hell.
I didn’t know what the hell was wrong with me.
I got up from the toilet, put on my jeans, sweater, and jacket, tied my shoes, got the car keys and drove down the street to a Rite Aid.
I walked to the pills section.
Started reading the boxes of some of the pills I took during that week.
Looked at the back of the Advil box; it said that if you take more than six Advils a day your stomach will bleed.
I took like twenty a day that week. That caused a minor panic.
The question arose: is my shit covered with dry blood and that’s why I can’t shit?
Didn’t think that was the reason though.
Went to the hemorrhoid medication section.
Read the back of those boxes. One of them said it relieves constipation.
“This must be it!” I said out loud to myself.
“My hemorrhoids are causing my constipation. That’s awesome!” I also said that out loud.
So I bought a tube of Preparation H and some ass-wipes.
Went to the counter and gave the clerk a big smile of pride because I had figured out why I couldn’t shit.
Drove home.
Inside, Delphine was sleeping on the living room floor.
We have to sleep in the living room because the windows in the bedroom are so drafty we both get sinus headaches and are congested.
I woke her up.
She looked at me like I was an asshole.
But I was very excited. I said, “Delphine, I figured out why I can’t shit. It’s my hemorrhoids.”
She looked at me with joy in her eyes.
Delphine and I went to the bathroom.
I took the tube of Preparation H out of the box. It had a thin two-inch nozzle on it. I asked her to insert it into my ass and then squeeze the bottle.