Mike is sitting on the couch in his living room. It is the only undamaged piece of furniture remaining. The stylish ranch home he spent fifteen years remodeling into the perfect dream home took less than six hours to destroy. The ax and sledgehammer he used lay on the floor beside the sofa.
He is drinking heavily. There are photos of him and Dell, along with several stacks of money, scattered atop the cracked and leaning coffee table to his front. There is also a pad of paper.
“You fucked me, now I fuck you.”
He begins to write what he says.
“And a system that continues to reward… No. Scratch that. Continues to pay-off whores long after their services cease, will reap a whirlwind of hate spawned… Nope. Scratch, scratch, scratch… A whirlwind of revenge inspired acts by those seeking justice. And blood will flow freely in this cesspool of society.”
He pours another drink and gulps it down, then throws the glass at a wedding picture on the mantel. Both shatter and rain down on the hearth and bounce on the carpet. Just like his dreams and memories. As he stares at the freshly torn picture he recalls the day he carried her across the threshold, in this very house. Now, the pictures and the house are nothing but the shattered reminders of so many broken dreams.
He grabs the bottle and points at a picture of Dell.
“You and the system screwed me.” He almost falls sideways, and has to right himself. “Well, you dirty stinking two-faced whore, how do you like this?”
Mike tosses the stacks of money into a metal waste basket. He pours some whiskey into the container, grabs a lighter, flicks on the flame… after a few tries, and drops it in. The contents immediately ignite.
“Y-you and the Gestapo and that fucking lawyer you’re screwing won’t get any future payments either—cuz’ there won’t be any.”
Mike reaches down by his leg and retrieves a .38 caliber Smith and Wesson revolver.
“W-who has the last laugh now?”
He lifts the gun to the side of his head, and without hesitation pulls the trigger.
He hears the click… but nothing happens.
He looks at the weapon, places it back to his head, and pulls the trigger again.
He looks in the cylinder.
He looks at the waste basket where the fire is slowly going out; all the contents are burned.
“Now I don’t even have enough money to buy bullets.”
He looks and points at the picture of Dell.
“You make me so mad, bitch, I can’t even think straight,” he said. “I can’t even plan my escape from your money-grubbing clutches.”
He stands, staggers, but regains his balance.
“What the hell am I going to do now?”
He takes a long swig from the bottle.
He turns, catches his foot on the broken coffee table, and crashes down atop it and the junk strewn about. And his head hits the sharp corner on the way down.
Mike heard the cracking of his skull. He saw the splatter of his blood. The bottle falls from his hand, hits the floor, and the remaining fluid begins to drain onto the carpet. And his last conscious thought was simply: Ain’t life a bitch!