Bang Bang

He was annoyed at everybody that didn't annoy him. He hated anybody
that didn't hate him. Blah blah blah... more ironies; more oxymorons;
more of the same paradoxical bullshit. Yes, he'd read the books about
the guns and the flesh and the ropes and cars and transvestite's tits
and credit card company human monopolies. Yes yes yes... And he was
suppose to be anything but what he was suppose to be... Not a fraud,
not an egotist, not a follower, and not a thinker. Just being raw. YES
RAW! You had to be raw here or you'd be a fraud. It was fraudulent to
think anything wasn't a fraud. And yes, no, maybe so, he's just a lost
being with the rest of them, so disillusioned, so extendedly promised,
so ideologically recycled that he, along with they, believed salvation
was the act of it's rejection... Pain was pleasure, depression was
bliss, disintegration was absolution. Thank God... wait no, scratch
that. Fuck God, fuck you, fuck himself with whatever absurd sharp
object comes to mind and if that's clich?d like it is, then throw in
some prepubescent boys, a sex changed father, a breathing lump of a dog
and cigarettes and then him, and you, will have something that's just
outside re-hashed shit, sailing quickly back into the whirl pooled
center of god-awful imitation.

He pulled out his silvered tight pistol from under the breakfast table.
Stuck it to his father's head. BANG. Stuck it to his mother's wide
eyes. BANG. Stuck it to his little sister's profoundly confused face.
BANG. Stuck it to his younger brother's quick heaving chest. BANG. And
don't forget 8-year-old Snickers. Her tail wasn't even in a nervous
waggle. Stuck it to her doggy ear. She was just as lazy before death as
she's ever been. BANG.

And guess what? He doesn't kill himself. HAHAHA, can you believe that?
He didn't do the BANG thing to himself. God, he is such a pioneer.