"This is my last gift to you motherfuckers before I blow my head off..."He sits comfortably in his office, staring into the empty cityscape. The room looks out to the heart of the financial district in New York with nothing separating him from the rest of Manhattan but an inch or so of glass. The buildings in front of him are all empty-- strange considering the state of the economy. There's always someone working till sunrise, but coincidentally, not tonight. The street lights illuminate the view in front of him like a late 40's noir film as he calmly sips on his prized single malt scotch on the rocks that he proudly purchased when he made his first major deal. The asphalt of the streets are deep black while the city lights struggle to keep the surrounding darkness illuminated, almost as if they are desperately fighting the wicked shadows away. The cigarette between his index and middle finger, his fifth in the past ten minutes, is a only puff or two away from hitting the filter. On the stand next to his seat is a tape record, set to document every statement, mumble, or even stutter that he is able to make. And to the right of the recorder sits a loaded bronze revolver, a gift from his father-in-law for cheating his underlings out of millions in bonuses, successfully cutting overhead costs for the company to survive another day.
"I've sold my soul, but you assholes are no better than me. I had, and I have so much to give, but all of you just keep taking and taking. You're hungry for it as if you're the starving African kids you see in movies. No one believes in mutual benefit anymore. We're so damn hung up on the feeling we got the morning when we got to open Christmas presents when we were kids that we stopped caring about about the kid after us and you know we've already forgotten about the silly fucker before us. We're willing to tear apart the finer details, the wrapping paper, in order to get to the actual object itself. Did we ever care about the wrapping the first place? It was almost more fun to destroy the fucking gift wrap. We were and still are fucking godzillas preying on our victims. And fuck the person who was nice enough to go through the trouble of giving us a present-- they probably got it on sale anyway."
He forces the last gulp of the scotch down his throat while nodding his head to the smooth trumpet solo of Miles Davis.
"We always complain about how short life is and how we never have enough time to get anything important done while somehow, life is all we know. It's the longest thing that we will ever endure. I mean, it's scary, you know? The process of dying is not the scariest part, though. It's what happens after you die. We're all convinced that we're important. It's pretty goddamn reasonable, if you think about it. Our existence is the only thing that we can be fucking sure of. Descartes says, 'I think, therefore I am' while I say, 'I think, so fuck you.' But after we die, it's as if we were never here in the first place. So what the hell do the thing we do mean? Our dreams and aspirations, goals, and the suffering that we go through-- meaningless. Things go on, people do the same shit to each other over and over again. And trust me-- it's all the same shit. Lighten up and see it, come on, I believe in you even if nobody else fucking does. Actually, I was just fucking with you about that. I have no faith in you. I am killing myself because I've lost hope in mankind, after all."
"You've run me to the point of exhaustion. I tried playing your game, being the exception to your rules, and I simply can't do it anymore. I never wanted to be alone, even as a kid. I would beg until I shit in my pants for my only brother to play with me... and he was four years younger than me. That's right, imagine as my own feces marked my footsteps just as my shit words mark your memories of me. It wasn't until I didn't give a fuck about what others thought of me that I found my own identity. But even with this revelation, I still felt alone and I was never comfortable in my solitude. What better way to mark my independence than say goodbye forever? Is there a bigger, 'fuck you' than have you collect my brain from the wall?"
"Ow, fuck me." The cigarette has finally run its course and burns his finger. He flicks the bud, watching the ashes spark all over the glass.
"Oooh, how pretty," he says sarcastically. "Now let me make a simile about how life dwindles just like these sparks. I hate how some people have such a hard-on for finding meanings in things, whether it is cinema, literature, or life in general. Can't you just let it go and take it for what it is? While I understand that there are layers within subjects that must be scrutinized, it has become too much of an obsession for the wrong subjects. We have ceased to be interested in layers of ourselves, relying upon psychology and sciences to find general patterns of our being, and instead we have become addicted to analyzing artifacts of our expressions."
"Then on the other end of the spectrum, away from the rest of the pompous cocksuckers are the ones who I often wonder about the existence of their brains."
"... I forgot to tell you, this is to tell you what about and why I hate people."
He takes a sip of the scotch. By now, the taste of alcohol has stopped being apparent to his taste buds. He slouches slightly as his feet rest snugly on the coffee table in front of him. Comfortably numb from the alcohol and nicotine running through his veins, he takes a deep, smokeless breath, his first since he started talking, before he continues.
"I have a problem with incompetence. No, wait a second, I have a problem with the complacence of being incompetent. Half of the time, the attempt itself goes a long way. While I believe that there are certainly external factors that hind one's ability to see and be in touch with oneself, if you're not in control of yourself-- what the fuck are you in control of? You can't expect everyone to wipe your ass, and nobody-- and I mean nobody likes a whiner. If you're not willing to help yourself, you bet your ass that people are just going to leave you in the water and get mauled by the gigantic shark trying to bite your balls off. And trust me, you want your fucking balls close to you."
"Building up a wall to see who cares enough to break them down is bullshit. It's a self-assurance tactic to check that your left tit isn't hanging and touching your knee. There are way too many social expectations and conducts to follow. To be honest, I never had time to round the corners. Self-admittedly, sometimes the most straightforward thing is not the most practical or even effective plan. But fuck it, if the glove fits."
"We fucking love taking apart the world and fence ourselves in. It's a part of this territorial hunger that is embedded within our being. We enclose ourselves through social groups, occupations, interests, and try to justify it with whatever reason. I see no problem in handling the world in bite-sized pieces, but only if you don't lose sight in the larger picture. It's like Halloween candy-- your trick-or-treat stash looks pretty awesome when they're piled together, but you never know where to start. So you start finding the things you like: the fun-sized Starbursts, Crunch bars, Snickers , and everything familiar. Eventually you pick out all the ones you know you like and by the time you finish those, the other ones are now old and no good. You never got to try the Three Musketeers or Now and Laters... and fuck me, those are the best ones."
He sets the scotch glass down, and reaches for the cigarette pack. It's now an empty package. He pours the leftover down his esophagus and takes a deep breath as a closes his eyes. The air has never smelled so sweet and his shoulders have never felt so relaxed.
"Oh yeah, the million dollars is buried in..."
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