this is an edit of the last paragraph i wrote for Cult of Comet, as well as another long-winded paragraph about shooting self in the face. i don’t think it’s as funny as it could be.
Perhaps I should overdose? His mind already works out multiple scenarios as the question is posited.
What would he do? Coke? Meth? Heroin? He knows not a single junkie nor bum nor dealer, not any unseemly type. How could he even procure it? He’s not some punk off the street; just asking the wrong person could get him shot or stabbed or both or worse. What if the dealer notices his shoes aren’t scuffed and decides to rob him? What if he gets kidnapped? What will they do when they realize he doesn’t have any money? What if they get bored and decide to torture him? What if they decide to rape him? He’s never had sex with a man. A man has never had sex with him. Or what if the whole thing goes off without a hitch, but WHAT IF they know he’s just some dumb white boy who wouldn’t think to test if the product was cut with toilet cleaner? What if he injects it and it makes his eyes explode and his blood boil? What if he can’t help but claw his skin off in agony all because the dealer thought it’d be funny? Or, what if he chances upon a police officer? Possibly undercover, or maybe he’s been watching a particular corner the whole time? And now is the time to strike, when he’s selling to that meager but slightly more advantaged Caucasian twentysomething who might know the supplier and would most assuredly roll over easier than a hardened narcotics peddler—oh shit, Gunner thinks, what if I go to jail before I can kill myself? What if I become somebody’s bitch? What of my anal virginity? They’ll give me life! My butthole’s not made for hard time. It must stay intact. No, no heroin, Gunner decides and continues pacing.
He thought about gun laws and how long it would take to get his license. He’d have to submit to the background check, which really is no problem no problem at all you see, but that still takes time. Gunner wants—nay, NEEDS to die now while his conviction is strong and nerves are hardened. He couldn’t wait to obtain one through the regular channels, so he perused the newspaper for the nearest gun show. Yeah, now you’re getting there, he thought. He could probably find more exotic if not slightly used firearms from a showroom for, at discounted rates. So which gun would he get? A shotgun might be a little too long for his arms, but Gunner had conditioned his big toe. The shotgun would be instantaneous and he’d finally be free. Or would he? What if it wasn’t instantaneous? What if he got the wrong slug? What if he even asked someone about ammo at the time of purchase, and in the buzzing confusion of explanation between buck shoots and steel shots, he gets the wrong slug? Or what if he held the gun wrong? If he holds the barrel in his mouth, would that kill him? Or would it turn to his face to some fleshy artistic interpretation of a flower blooming? Would his skin just rip off and leave some deranged, eyelidless skeleton? The noise would surely cause an alarm. What about the first responders that find his faceless body, gun in hand, writhing on the floor. They’d know it was a suicide attempt and they’d have him committed to a mental institution. Gunner can’t go to a medical institution! He can’t even look himself in the mirror after fucking up his own face. His mildly attractive but for some reason not to all women face. He’d be stuck in that hospital, doped up against his will, with soft padding over all the corners and bars on the windows. What about the suicide attempts? They’ll tell him it’s a cry for help, that he’s sick, that he can get better. NO SHIT BUT WHAT ABOUT MY FUCKING FACE I’M HIDEOUS, Gunner thinks. No, no shotgun. No guns at all. Besides, now he’s thinking of the mess it leaves and he knows he’ll feel just awful for whomever has to clean that up.
2/14/14 fri. Cult of Comet.