It started with a bang, like all fuckin' teenage-drama murder stories. Ain't that always how it starts? A pointed gun, a bitten threat? That's how this one had started, anyway, with Mickey Macintyre on his knees in front of his daddy, the barrel of a gun pointed to his forehead. His dick was out and his jeans were down, and the kid behind him had a bullet in his brain, and ****. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Mickey was 17 years old and the guy behind him had been 19. He had light skin and light eyes and scarlet spattered all across his pretty goddamn face, and this was all Mickey's fault.
Mick stared down that smoking gun, and he knew. This is the day you die, Mick. You really fucked it all up this time. Look what your goddamn thirsty *** got you, huh? Was the dick worth it? Was it? It wasn't. 'course it wasn't. Nothing could be. Now that kid -- He has a name, Mick, but what was it? -- was dead as a goddamn doornail and his pa was looking at him with a red face and spittle on his mouth, sayin' **** like, "I ain't gonna have no goddamn faggot in my house, Mick. I won't have it. I didn't raise no goddamn ****-sucker."
But you did, right, pa? You did. He was on his knees right there, in front of you, terrified, about to piss himself, and madder than Hell, and you raised him. Your own goddamn spunk had created that boy with all the bruises, who got in trouble at school 'cos he was too goddamn smart for his own good, who just wanted to get high in the bathroom and **** his boss at the convenience store. And this kid. This poor, poor kid. That poor ******* ******** was just happy to get his rocks off, and now he was dead. He'd never wake up and see another sunrise. He'd never waste away at his stupid job. And ****, ****, what was his name, again?
"Pa, listen, I --" Mickey started, and his father whipped him with the back of the pistol and Mick went sprawling, seeing stars. The dick hadn't been worth it. He thought about the other kids, his older sister, who was trying so hard, his little brothers, who didn't know any better. They were all stuck here under the thumb of his alcoholic asshole, and it was you, Mickey Murtagh Macintyre, the one who could go to college if you didn't keep fuckin' up, the one who made the money stealing credit card numbers using machines you'd made yourself, that was gonna die by his hand.
You fucked up, Mickey Macintyre. You sonuvabitch. Ain't that the truth? The ***** who'd made him was long gone, and the ******** that was left was panting like he'd just run a marathon. His father threw the gun away, spit at Mick's feet.
Then the teenager had the gun, and he was standing, and his dick was still out, flaccid and tucked up in itself with fear, fuckin' funny looking as hell, but he was holding the gun and he was aiming it right at his pa's turned head when he went to go get a beer, after busting open his eldest son's face. And then he was pulling the trigger, and the sound made Mick's head spin, and he almost missed, because the kickback was more than he expected, but he caught that ********, the right side of his head, and it split open and blood sprayed like it had when that kid had died, what was his fuckin' name?, and then his pa was falling, falling like a sack of bricks, like money from the sky in that TV show his older sister watched, sometimes, when she wanted to pretend they could be happy and rich and not living six-deep in a rented house on the southside of Chicago, and then he was crashing, and he wasn't moving, and he was dead, he was dead as anything, as dead as that kid, his name was Benji, Benji, Benji, you ***********, remember, and Mickey Macintyre didn't have a daddy no more.
Patrick Macintyre was dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Mickey let the gun hang useless at his side. The kids weren't home. It was just him, his dead pa, and dead Benji, with only Mickey there to tell the tale. His eyes burned like he'd just done a line of coke, but he was stone-cold sober. And his chest hurt, and then Mickey was crying, holding the gun that had killed his father. "I'm sorry, pa. Pa, 'm sorry." Patrick Macintyre didn't respond. 'course he didn't. He's dead, you dumb ***********. You did it. His voice was a whisper. Barely there, then it was gone. Just like the life he'd snuffed out.
It started with a bang. But it ended with a whimper.
Ain't that the most cliched fuckin' T.S. Eliot **** you ever heard?
Mick stared down that smoking gun, and he knew. This is the day you die, Mick. You really fucked it all up this time. Look what your goddamn thirsty *** got you, huh? Was the dick worth it? Was it? It wasn't. 'course it wasn't. Nothing could be. Now that kid -- He has a name, Mick, but what was it? -- was dead as a goddamn doornail and his pa was looking at him with a red face and spittle on his mouth, sayin' **** like, "I ain't gonna have no goddamn faggot in my house, Mick. I won't have it. I didn't raise no goddamn ****-sucker."
But you did, right, pa? You did. He was on his knees right there, in front of you, terrified, about to piss himself, and madder than Hell, and you raised him. Your own goddamn spunk had created that boy with all the bruises, who got in trouble at school 'cos he was too goddamn smart for his own good, who just wanted to get high in the bathroom and **** his boss at the convenience store. And this kid. This poor, poor kid. That poor ******* ******** was just happy to get his rocks off, and now he was dead. He'd never wake up and see another sunrise. He'd never waste away at his stupid job. And ****, ****, what was his name, again?
"Pa, listen, I --" Mickey started, and his father whipped him with the back of the pistol and Mick went sprawling, seeing stars. The dick hadn't been worth it. He thought about the other kids, his older sister, who was trying so hard, his little brothers, who didn't know any better. They were all stuck here under the thumb of his alcoholic asshole, and it was you, Mickey Murtagh Macintyre, the one who could go to college if you didn't keep fuckin' up, the one who made the money stealing credit card numbers using machines you'd made yourself, that was gonna die by his hand.
You fucked up, Mickey Macintyre. You sonuvabitch. Ain't that the truth? The ***** who'd made him was long gone, and the ******** that was left was panting like he'd just run a marathon. His father threw the gun away, spit at Mick's feet.
Then the teenager had the gun, and he was standing, and his dick was still out, flaccid and tucked up in itself with fear, fuckin' funny looking as hell, but he was holding the gun and he was aiming it right at his pa's turned head when he went to go get a beer, after busting open his eldest son's face. And then he was pulling the trigger, and the sound made Mick's head spin, and he almost missed, because the kickback was more than he expected, but he caught that ********, the right side of his head, and it split open and blood sprayed like it had when that kid had died, what was his fuckin' name?, and then his pa was falling, falling like a sack of bricks, like money from the sky in that TV show his older sister watched, sometimes, when she wanted to pretend they could be happy and rich and not living six-deep in a rented house on the southside of Chicago, and then he was crashing, and he wasn't moving, and he was dead, he was dead as anything, as dead as that kid, his name was Benji, Benji, Benji, you ***********, remember, and Mickey Macintyre didn't have a daddy no more.
Patrick Macintyre was dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Mickey let the gun hang useless at his side. The kids weren't home. It was just him, his dead pa, and dead Benji, with only Mickey there to tell the tale. His eyes burned like he'd just done a line of coke, but he was stone-cold sober. And his chest hurt, and then Mickey was crying, holding the gun that had killed his father. "I'm sorry, pa. Pa, 'm sorry." Patrick Macintyre didn't respond. 'course he didn't. He's dead, you dumb ***********. You did it. His voice was a whisper. Barely there, then it was gone. Just like the life he'd snuffed out.
It started with a bang. But it ended with a whimper.
Ain't that the most cliched fuckin' T.S. Eliot **** you ever heard?
