Sunday, December 18, 2016

A Definition Of Happiness

Bullets ricocheted off walls, glasses and dishes shattered and windows smashed as Jacob unloaded another clip from his beloved Glock 17L.

17 bullets to a clip allowed him to release a lot of pent up anger in quick, furious bursts.

He knew the cops would arrive any second but really didn't give a shit; he was past the point of no return. Had been there for years, really, but somehow had managed to keep his demons at bay.

But a man can only take so much.

One burst pretty much wiped out the bottles sitting on top of the bar and this made him smile. The irony of killing what had killed his pain for so long and allowed him to function as expected, was not lost on him.

He apologized silently for the sickening waste of life fluids.

He did however have a bottle of his beloved on the floor right next to him. JTS Brown. A Kentucky bourbon Jacob learned about while watching The Hustler. Bottom shelf, but if it was good enough for Fast Eddie Felson it was good enough for him.

In a way he identified with Fast Eddie. The darkness of his life; the fighting and clawing and scratching, the never ending struggle and the minimal, unsatisfying victories. Except Jacob knew he would never experience that ultimate victory. He had cemented his future when he started blasting away, and there was no winning in it.

Only death.

Which was OK. Preferable, actually.

Jacob wasted his life working to preserve a lifestyle he did not believe in and that effort killed him a long time ago, much more so than the bullet he had planned for his brain would ever do.

People walk away from things; they give up or start over. Jacob could have walked away, should have walked away but never did.

He used to agonize over the inability to move in a different direction and wonder why he never did.

Not any more. What is the point of analyzing a life? No fucking point at all.

We all piss it away; we get lost and confused, weighed down like a body thrown overboard and then it is all over.

Too late. Too fucking late.

Life becomes a joke. You approach it as if you were an alien studying human lifeforms. Every situation seems ludicrous, nothing feels real. And nothing seems to matter.

That's when you start not giving a shit. That's when you invent a definition of happiness, no matter how twisted, and stick to it no matter where it leads.

Which is how Jacob wound up on the kitchen floor happily blasting away at his piece of shit house. The house that had suffocated him with its eternal mortgage payment. The tomb where he lived as the walking dead.

He grabbed the bottle of JTS Brown by the neck and tipped it up to take a long, slow, satisfying drink.

Jacob heard the sirens in the distance. Fucking neighbors must have made the call. Why couldn't they leave him alone? Why couldn't everybody just fucking leave him alone?

He had done his homework. Thank God for the internet. He knew exactly where on his skull to place the Glock to produce the nastiest results. Had practiced in front of the mirror many times.

He wanted as much blood and brain spread around as possible. So that even in death he could create turmoil.

They were on the bullhorn now. Trying to get Jacob to give it up.

Give what up? What a fucking joke. He had nothing. No past, no future, no happiness, no life. And this bullshit about living in the now? What a load of crap. Made more sense to die in the now.

One last swallow of JTS Brown. Delicious.

He started singing: "Champagne don't drive me crazy, cocaine don't make me lazy, ain't nobody's business but my own; candy is dandy and liquor is quicker, you can drink all the liquor down at Costa Rica, ain't nobody's business but my own."

Jacob fired a shot through the hole where the living room picture window had been.

As the barrage of police bullets assaulted his house he placed the Glock up against his head.

And smiled.

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