Blow myself sky high
To finish the story
With...Out...You
-Serge Gainsbourg

The gun tastes awful. I'm not sure the right way to do it. Using my thumb on the trigger could give me a better grip, but it might go off at an angle and give me permanent brain damage? Should I turn my hand around and use my finger? I even had the gun upside down for a minute and it felt right. Then a vision of me as a drooling vegetable from getting this wrong torments me.

The room rents by the hour. The first hour I paid up front. Every hour after that is calculated at check out.

I'm going on my third hour. My last day on Earth will include this wonderful deal. A few hours for free in a shitty hotel room. HEY! This is my DEATH DAY and I deserve the discount.

I’ve smoked 24 cigarettes. I'm taking my time on the Glen Livet that's accompanying me.

Consoling me.

Egging me on.

Do it. Do it. Do it.

My notebook is ready for my last words that will forever be etched into the minds of my family and friends.

I write.

Fuck you all. Sincerely, Tony.

That’s not how I want my last writing assignment to read. There are too many individuals that need a proper and harsher fuck you.

Tim, Fuck you! My dying wish is the police catch up to you and you end up in jail getting buggered by your cellmate Bubba. Your ass will be sore and raw from Bubba's abnormal penetrating width. You humiliated me one too many times.

Becky, Fuck you! For pretending you loved me and dropping your panties for anyone with facial hair and a car.

A jackhammer outside blows my literary concentration.

Shut up, I yell out the window.

A beer delivery driver picks up his hand truck after delivering kegs to the bar next door. His pants hang low and show his butt.

Hey, Ass Crack! Pull 'em up! I yell.

He doesn't hear me. A Mexican girl with long curly hair and a short dress smiles in my direction after my insult to Ass Crack. I stare at her. I say a prayer to God for a wind to come and lift her skirt to give me one last glimpse of a beautiful ass.

God doesn't answer my prayer. What else is new?

The owner will be pissed when he finds out I took my own rental discount in this room. He'll be livid when he's cleaning the bloody mess off of the walls. He could use the towel on his head to get the hard to reach corners.

I pour three fingers of scotch and light another cigarette. I walk around the room, gun in hand, pretending I'm robbing a bank.

Pow. Pow. Pow. Bang. Bang. I whisper.

I put the gun to my head and pretend I'm Travis Bickle.

Then I’m Chow Yun Fat in The Killer. I wish I had two guns to play him proper on my last day of life.

I look out the window to see if my Mexican Princess is still out there. She's gone.

Back to my note.

Linda, Fuck you! Your diseased genitals made me itch for weeks. The doctors put cold steel in my pee-hole to make sure it wasn’t deadly.

Paul, Fuck you! I don’t need the shit job anymore. Here’s my two-week notice, splattered on walls and sheets and lampshades and shag rug.

Henry, Fuck you! You're a -

The pen runs out of ink. Of course this is my luck. I throw the pen across the room.

Down on the small table is my bottle of Glen, a dirty plastic glass to contain my liquor, a gun and an almost burned down cigarette in an ashtray full of smokes. The best photo opportunities always happen when you don't have a camera. I stare at the beautiful moment of time. I want the mental picture as I descend to Hell.

I wonder if Satan needs a part-time photographer to work in the ID department of Hades.

I jump down the stairs and to the bar next door to borrow a pen from the bartender I'll never return. He'll be able to claim it at the crime scene if he really cares.

I try to look deep in thought as I pass the hotel clerk.

Are you done with the room Mr.? You have to pay. The hotel clerk says.

I'll be back in a second, I say with my faux authoritative businessman voice.

I really need the Day of Death discount to make myself feel better.

At the bar, I order a beer before I ask for a pen. I'm trying to figure out who else I have to "Fuck You!" before I end existence as I know it. I sit at the bar with my beer. I can't leave Earth without a beer to wash down my scotch. A Get Smart pinball machine is in the corner. I ask for quarters. I haven't played pinball in years.

One hour, four beers and seven pinball games later, I'm leaning over the pinball machine quietly crying looking at the realistic cartoon figure of Agent 99. How I loved her when I was young. I even talked like Maxwell Smart sometimes at school in the hopes of getting a girl like her.

I sit down. Thoughts of my Mexican Princess with the short skirt and wide smile enter my mind. I have to write a story about her. Maybe it'll get published. Maybe I'll read it to her one day. Maybe she'll be my Agent 99 for a night. Maybe all my stories will get published. Maybe I'll have my pick of Agent 99s because the world will recognize my literary talents. Maybe....

I don't need the room any longer, I tell the clerk when I get back.

He calculates my bill.

Did you leave anything in the room? He asks.

No, I say even though I could use another swig of scotch, the taste of a gun in my mouth would be too tempting.

Tim was right, I am irresponsible and I have no follow through.

I head back to the office and hope Paul doesn’t smell the alcohol on my breath.

Tony DuShane lives in San Francisco.  He writes entertainment articles for the San Francisco Chronicle and other publications. The rest of his time is spent working on his radio show, editing Cherry Bleeds and bench pressing 21 year old women who weigh 165 or less.  His shoe size is 11 and his liver is strong.