I’m Going out With Panache
“…Be…u….ti…ful… friend” blares out from the speakers of my Cadillac Escalade in the parking lot of Mermaids, a strip club on St. Pete Beach. I hoover another line of blow and rig up another fix, my second in as many hours. I have more drugs, whatever anybody could want, in a duffle bag on the backseat. I have a nine millimeter tucked into my waist and an AR 15 on the floorboard. I’m ready like a motherfucker.
“…This is the end…”
I emptied my meagre savings account last week and bought a gun. I went to 34th and MLK and robbed a drug dealer. Then I went to Gulfport and robbed another couple men, hard. I shot a kid because he reached for his piece. Damn. I drove back home and tried to park but my Russian mafia neighbor had taken up two parking spaces with his obnoxious SUV. Again. I scribbled over a pizza menu with a Sharpie, left my car in the street and knocked on his door. When he answered I handed him the note. He read it, ‘Parking Enforcement’ and, just as his eyes narrowed with irritation and accusation, I pistol whipped him into a coma. I think. He was breathing but not moving. I think that’s like a coma? I took his car keys from his pocket and his wife’s vibrator from between the mattress and box springs. I was looking for money but when I saw that thing I impulsively took it. I’m kind of a klepto. And a freak. Apparently.
“No safety or surprise… the end.”
I haven’t been eating much but when I have it’s been double cheeseburgers with bacon and dipped in mayo. Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food to wash it down. I’m now only a few blocks from what was my happy home. It feels like miles. States. Countries away. I kissed my pets and stroked my wife goodbye and I’m not going back. I don’t want to see them suffer.
“…I’ll never look into your eyes… again.”
I’ve always promised myself that when the time came I’d go out in style. This is it. Drugs. Strippers. Scratch off lottery tickets. Maybe try anal sex with a small lavender vibrator. I have to work up a state of mind for a thing like that, I guess. The strippers are all willing to come out to the Cady and do a line or three but so far I haven’t had any luck convincing them that we should fuck like wild animals. Like vampires fuck on True Blood. Especially like that. It’s like these people don’t even care that we’re less than a week from the apocalypse.
When I found out that the animated corpse of Harold Camping not only predicted, but guaranteed, that the End of Days would begin on May 21st, I knew that it was time to party like it was 1999. Times a thousand. Like if Charlie Sheen and Lindsey Lohan had a baby and the baby celebrated its 21st birthday in Vegas on Kill a Hooker day which also coincided with a Red Bull promotion in the hotel he was staying. That’s how hard it’s time to party. Harold Camping has amassed 100 million dollars on the back of this prophesy so you know it’s got to be airtight.
“In a… desperate land.”
Now I just need to recruit a few like minded road warriors, preferably really good looking slutty women, to ride west with me on an apocalyptic crime spree ending at Camping’s front door. I plan to make him clear his throat at gunpoint before giving him a message to give to God from me. “Thanks for all the fish. And opiates. Mostly the opiates.” Then, after those retards get raptured, I’ll be sitting on a huge pile of cash. And weaponry. Those End Timers are big on the guns right? Or am I thinking of the Branch Davidians? I can never remember my cults. The gravel mouthed crypt keeper says that those left behind, us, that we’ll have to endure 153 days of torment by the antichrist. Beats seven years. Fire my old apocalypse attorney. It’s a huge win for America. We’ll finally be free of conservatives and Christian rock. This is going to be a huge adrenaline rush. I’m ecstatic. I think I’m ready to try the vibrator.
“It hurts to set you free.”
Now, I’m going to blast another line. Then, I’m going to take a shit in the frozen food isle of the grocery store across the street. I dislike the night manager. She accused me of assaulting her husband and stealing her vibrator. That lying bitch.
(This is) The End
PS- To the SPBPD. This was a purely satirical piece of fiction. Any dead drug dealers, pistol-whipped Russian citizenry, stolen Escalades, or piles of steaming shit in local grocery stores, if they do in fact exist, are purely coincidental.
PPS- The only thing funnier than this zombified enema, Camping, are all the ‘normal’ Christians losing their shit and saying how crazy he is because nobody knows when it’ll happen. But all the other stuff is totally going to happen. “Shiny mirror make scary.”
PPPS- Seriously though, how cool would it be if this did actually happened. If it does, meet me at the corner of Hollywood and Vine on May 22nd at 2am and we’ll go all Waterworld except we’ll be on land. And without Kevin Costner. I hope.
PPPPS- Anyone interested in a 5 inch, gently used, lavender vibrator, please email me at firstname.lastname@example.org.
“But you’ll *never* follow… me”