Laughing at Death II

Finally, the bartender finished mixing my Manhattan and I downed the whole thing in about ten seconds. After slamming the glass down on the bar, I immediately motioned the bartender to pour me another drink. That was about the time when my friend decided to reveal himself.

“Tom,” the woman said, unbuttoning her coat and taking a seat on the stool next to me, “Have you given any thought to our proposal?”

“I have.” I paused for a moment, expecting her to respond, and then said, “I’m sorry, you want me to buy you a drink or something?”

“Tom, we’re going to give you your life back. You don’t have to keep running from the police anymore. All you have to do is give me the names of your contacts.”

For some reason, I started chuckling. Then that chuckle evolved into hearty laughter. The bartender handed me my next drink, “So was this offer before or after I found federal agents planting bugs in my apartment and tapping my phones? You’re really just going to let me walk away?” I drank the second Manhattan in under ten seconds before continuing, “Just what kind of an idiot do you take me for?”

“You will be allowed to go to whatever country you wish. We can make it happen. Just tell us the names of the people you contacted, and we will forget all about this.”

“Martha…was it Martha? I’m trying to remember your name. Anyways, Martha, you should try lightening up. Have a drink.”

“You’re awfully jovial tonight, considering that we have about a dozen federal agents and a county SWAT team ready to storm this place on my word. We have enough evidence to send you up the river in a second.” Martha seemed to be getting angry, probably all those weeks of chasing me through the streets of Chicago, “Don’t be stupid, and take the damn offer.”

“A few days ago, I was in your shoes. I was the cold hard-ass with a chip on his shoulder the size of a parking lot. But I realized something: All the investigations I did, all the arrests I made, none of them matter in the grand scheme of things. Nature has a way of filling the vacuum with another asshole. Even the organization that has their claws shoved up your ass, even when my friend at the DOJ gets the evidence, someone will replace them.”

“Enough talk,” Martha growled, and she grabbed my arm. “You had your chance to take the offer, and you wasted it on some crazy rant.”

“Hey, it’s your funeral.” I lunged behind the bar with my free arm and grabbed the nearest bottle of alcohol, and swung it at the evil woman, drawing blood from her head and sending her to the floor. The bartender barked something at me, but I didn’t care. I just threw my wallet at him to pay for the rest of the drinks I proceeded to smash around the bar. The happy couple, the frat boys, the girls and boys on their respective nights out all started screaming in horror and running for the door. The cops would be here any minute to silence me. I planned on taking them down with me.

“Goodbye cruel world, I got’cher last laugh right here,” I said, just before I doused myself in alcohol and flicked on the lighter, laughing all the way as I ran towards the nearest federal agent. Was he a member of the conspiracy? Or just some shmuck who was give orders to bring me in? It didn’t matter as I wrapped him in my glowing embrace before his friends decided to take the thumbs outta their asses and plug me full of bullets of several different calibers: 9mms, .38s, .45s, maybe even a 5.57 or two.

Oh, if only they saw the humor in wasting all that time and money to catch little old me.

Laughing at Death

[or, “Hey, I can write serious shit too.”]

I held the light manilla folder in my hands, checking that the address was correct before quietly slipping it into the mailbox. It was just a safety precaution, but in all fairness I had a feeling I wasn’t going to be walking out of that place alive.

“Get me a Manhattan,” I said to the bartender, sliding a fiver across the bar. As the man prepared my drink, I turned around on my stool and waited for my contact to arrive. My eyes scanned across the room as I waited. I saw a few college students throwing back jager-bombs and cheering each other on, and wondered if they were old enough to drink or if the bartender bothered to check their IDs. I noticed a young couple sipping a drink from one big glass before the woman laughed heartily at something the man had said. At another table, a man in his mid-30s was trying to charm a woman five years younger than him while she appeared to be showing just a little interest in his story.

I just couldn’t get it. How could these people be so happy? How could they sit there laughing, cheering, drinking while the country crumbled to pieces around them? When their leaders dangled false promises in front of them and the mob was playing everyone on the bottom for suckers? I immediately began to resent them, buncha yuppie punks who would never know what it was like to scrimp and save every penny, to have to pull yourself up by the bootstraps while the bosses and the politicians tried to rip the boots away.

Not a very happy story, is it? Hey, you want unconditional love, get a puppy. You want a pet that remains apathetic except when it needs food, get a cat. My job was finding the truth behind these everyday things, and now it seems I’m going to die for it.

[bleh, to be continued]