No fun...

Johnny Rotten yelled in his ears.

“No fun!”

Over and over. The white ear buds were sticking out of his black hoodie. He swore the girl saw him looking at her – in complete disgust. But he couldn’t be sure. Didn’t really have time to think about it anyway. It would be the last time either of them saw each other, no matter what. The thought of that satisfied him in a way he hadn’t been in a while now. Surprisingly, he paused to bask in that feeling for just a moment. He’d promised himself no distractions. But this was too good to pass up. The warmth of the feeling washed over his entire body, almost like a sunrise on the beach in the winter.

But her voice ended the peace. Like an anvil falling on Wil E. Coyote. “Damn you,” he thought.

It was time.

He reached for the zipper on his hoodie. It stuck halfway down, like it always did. A slight pause to get the thread matched back up and whoosh, it came off. Both arms were now out, each holding a shotgun, sawed off hastily two nights before under the influence of half a bottle of Jameson and a few shots of tequila.

The only person who saw the guns before they started shooting was her. Her crooked grin that always was plastered on her face disappeared in an instant that stayed with him for the rest of his life, turning into a wide-agape mouth full of sheer terror.

“Blam!” Went the shotgun in his left hand. “Odd,” he thought, “I’m right-handed. Would have thought I would have pulled that trigger first.”

“Blam!” the second gun erupted a split second later.

The first shot had struck her in the arm, nearly taking it off from her shoulder. She looked at it, flapping there. The second shot hit the guy next to her. He was covered in blood before the buckshot hit him from her arm’s explosion. He didn’t have long to notice as his shot blew straight through his head.

Instant death. It’s what he always jokingly asked for, he thought to himself.

Clicking a new round into each gun’s chamber like he was in a John Woo movie, he spun around in time to see his boss ducking under a table, yelling “Shiiiiiiiiiiiit!” The next two shots were for her. Never liked that bitch.

Another round loaded, the last person left in the room was the custodian. He was an old Hispanic guy. Never said much to anyone. And did a horrible job cleaning anything. It baffled him why the old guy was still around. Some kid could be doing his job, for less money, and actually clean the dried up shit off of the toilet bowl. Except for the executive’s bathroom. It was cleaned daily. And the floors waxed every Saturday. It drove him nuts that this bathroom right next to his desk was always closed on Saturdays, forcing a long trek to the back bathrooms and their shit-covered seats.

“Don’t shoot me Jake,” the old man said.

“I ain’t shooting you, Alex,” he said back. “You’re already dead. I’d just be wasting my shots.”

“Mighty kind of you,” he said, ducking into that very bathroom. He heard the old man vomit. The only thing he’d ever seen the old guy eat was leftovers from corporate meetings, so there was no telling what was coming out with the stomach bile.

By now, the cops would be on the way. Johnny was still yelling in his ear about how little fun life was. “Boy was he ever right,” he said out loud.

Walking out the front door, a few people were outside, talking on cell phones.

“Calling the cops?” he asked them.

All froze in their tracks. He laughed manically. He felt good. For the first time in years. The pain in his back was gone. The cancer growing inside him, making his joints ache, his eyes yellow and his muscles atrophy was stopped for a minute. It too was admiring what he was doing, he thought to himself.

A man from the public relations department was pointing his phone oddly.

“Are you fucking filming me?” he screamed, almost channeling Mr. Rotten’s yarble.

“Um. Um. Um. No…” he said meekly.

The blast of the shotgun knocked him over. A direct hit to the chest. Still breathing, he whimpered “No…No…Please. Du…du…don’t do it…”

The second blast took off a leg. The third and fourth his arms.

Still alive, his eyes glazed over a bit. The phone was still in the ad executive’s severed hand.

Laughing, he picked it up, pushed stop on the camera and watched the video. It was from the beginning. This fucker had been watching the whole thing. Was probably going to sell it to ABC or Fox.

“Guess you won’t be getting rich, huh?” he said to the guy’s face.

The ad man spit out a gob of black blood.

“Pretty cool,” he said, walking away.

Before he knew it, he was in his car. Driving west. Always drive west a song had once told him. Or was it a friend? Anyway, if you aren’t driving west, you’re going back. You’re retreating. You’re giving up. So, always drive west.

He drove east to work every day. Well, he did until today. And west to go home. That allowed him to stay sane. For a while.

Now, he saw the sun, falling in front of him. A blood caked cell phone was on his dashboard. Johnny Rotten was yelling at him, too.

“This is not a love song…”

neil and johnny

I put on P.I.L.’s “First Issue”. I look at myself in the mirror. I’m not a geeky kid anymore. Why am I listening to an album that only geeky kids would listen too?

There’s a reason people get stuck where they are. It’s because they decide to stay there. It has nothing to do with circumstances or health problems or their fucking girlfriends. It’s just because you decided the status quo, no matter how good or bad it is, isn’t worth giving up for the unknown.

Take my speeding ticket. It’s going to cost $290 to make it go poof. Disappear as if it never happened. There is slightly over $700 in the savings account. But, instead of using that money to pay for it, the decision is made to put it on a credit card. More debt to pile on top of the old debt. And why? To have that money available when the bottom falls out. But really, what good is $700 going to do? It’ll pay a month’s rent. Or it will allow me to drive for a few weeks. Or make a few car payments. Depends on what the priority at that moment is.

Fucking stupid ain’t it?

I wonder if she listens to Johnny Rotten yell on top of bass beats? It seems like such a simple pleasure to have. Such an awesome thing to find out about too. Will it ever happen? Who fucking knows. Probably. Probably not. Depends.

Isolation also makes one wonder a bit. That is definitely what’s going on here. This was the fourth year now in a row that I haven’t been working on Super Bowl Sunday. The first one, I went to a friend’s house for a party with the newly minted GF. It was awkward and cool at the same time. The last three years, I haven’t done a thing. I can’t remember the other two, but last night I watched the game on the computer. Kept fading in and out. Kind of reminded me of the old days of the 9 inch black and white TV, stealing away late nights watching such things. Always having to adjust the antennae back and forth to get a picture, just substitute the F5 button for the antennae. I ate some good food. Enjoyed a few beers. Listened to the club across the street rock back and forth. Then, all of the sudden I started to feel ill. Could I finally be succumbing to the awful grunge sickness that everyone else has? I’ve done all I could to avoid it. Not shake hands. Wash them all the time. Use napkins on door knobs. Shit. I can’t get sick. I tell myself. I have no insurance. No money even if I did. So, I took some Nyquil and laid down on the couch. I don’t remember much after that. I woke up with a little over a minute left in the game. Saw the end. The rest? Didn’t see it. Wonder if I missed anything? Is this what happens to you when you get old? Or just lonely?

It really didn’t matter. No interest really. Kind of wish I’d been bowling or leaping over fences or dancing in the dark. All of those things seem so much more interesting than watching a collective advertisement for how great America is, when in reality, the country is in the shitter. And the shit is getting deeper every day. It’ll be an interesting day when the bill comes due. When there’s nothing but misery for everyone.

But that’s just depressing and awful. I’d rather think that in the future we’ll all be serenaded by Johnny Lydon and roll around in the periwinkle after he’s done.

It’s a future. Your future?

As I stare at myself in a reflection in a dirty window, Mr. Rotten/Lydon yells about religion. I tried to have religion. It just doesn’t settle into my head the right way. I want to believe in it. I do believe in something. Just can’t put my finger on it.

The reflection stares back at me. It’s an older version of the me that I picture being me. I suppose that’s what everyone sees when they think of themselves. Only to be startled by the real thing when the lighting changes.

I walk outside. Maybe she’ll be there? I’m an optimist about that one thing in my life. That one day, Neil Young will be right. Those words he once sang, he believed them, right? I hope so.