Part 3

I walk into the bar to see the same faces I've seen since I started here 4 years ago. Ted, the bartender from small town Iowa who wanted to become a psychologist, but never had enough money to attend university. 

Jane, the former pornstar who was fired once she got knocked up. Put a c-section birth ontop of that, and she'll only be doing work for the niche work. Fetishes and whatnot. Apparently they don't pay that well. 

There's Jerry, the Nam veteran who tells the horror stories of his long dead military friends, because all he did was verify the news that was coming in.

People I've come to know from 4 years of drinking here, and having to put up with co-workers I can't stand.The people I try not to talk to. Sam doesn't come around alot. Him and Ted don't get along. 

The average night of Sam and I drinking at our preferred watering hole, The King's Head, goes like so: Sam drinks. I drink. We debate something stupid...like time travel, or Superman v.s. Harvey Birdman. I get bored. When I'm drunk and bored I decide to do some stupid things. I once woke up in Sam's bathtub with some girl I didn't know on top of me and a box of dragonfruit on the floor. How the hell I found or could even afford a box of dragonfruit is beyond me. So, Sam and I decide to do something dumb, like go over to the jukebox and put on some Pink Floyd. Probably end up screaming the lyrics to "Have A Cigar". Ted cuts us off. Sam gets pissed. Sam gets into a fight with Ted. Ted gets Jim, the closest thing The King's Head has to a bouncer, to throw Sam and I out. Sam and I spend the rest of the night going to other bars, trying to convince the bartenders to give us more booze.

But Sam isn't here tonight.
I drink with my insufferable co-workers....have I told you how much I hate them? They chat about the minor annoyances of the day. They talk about their kids. They boast their homes and cottages. I sit quietly. I don't have the lcd TV's, the expensive cars, or the soundsystems that they have. I don't want those things. I don't want to live the American Dream, having 2.5 children, living in Barbie and Ken's dreamhouse, and driving a fine American automobile. I'm happy with the simple things I have. The most expensive object in my house is my computer, and I only bought it so I play SOCOM without having to be in Sam's apartment. In retrospect it was a terrible idea. With the ability to play video games over the internet, I can barely pull myself away from the computer. 

I stay later than most of the people I came with. Ted asks me why I didn't say much. I tell him that I really don't have much to say. Tell him about how little I relate to the peolple that surround me. Nothing he hasn't heard before. I ask for a scotch before I go. He grabs the dusty, brown bottle of vile liquid from the shelf and pours a shot. I slam it back and ignore the taste of wood and the burning sensation in my throat. I watch the recaps of Baseball from earlier. The Cubs lose to Boston, 8-1. No surprises. As Eddie Vedder wrote "Someday we'll go all the way." 

I leave the pub through the back door, into the alleyway. It's closer to my apartment, so Ted lets me leave out the back. There's a dumpster that hasn't been emptied in a while. It smells of rotting fish and potatoes. I walk by, with my hand over my mouth and nose to keep the putrid smell out of my system. Once I'm out of the smell zone, I'm able to open my eyes. The first thing I see is my shoes, as I inhale to get the smell out. The next thing I see is a figure in a trenchcoat with a can of spraypaint, tagging the wall. I yell at him to stop. He doesn't listen. I yell again. Nothing. I move closer. He pulls out a gun. I freeze.

I expect to see my whole life flash before my eyes. It doesn't. Why? Because I'm too fucking scared to think. I freeze, with a stupid face waiting for the few seconds, that seem like an eternity. 

I see him pull the trigger. I hear the sound of the small explosion, propelling the projectile out of the barrell. I feel the impact it makes in my chest. I cock my head to the side. My brain registers that I've been shot. I pass out.