I can’t tell you how much I love it.
Well… ‘love’ it in the sense that I get off on the look on some idiot’s face when they ask the inevitable ‘why,’ as I slip my hands around their throat or slide my knife into their liver. The why never matters, not in those moments, only the cognition that it is real, and happening now. Right now; when the barrel is pressed to your temple and my finger’s on the trigger, and I’m about to play God with your pathetic life… Well, the Devil’s in the details, as they say. But angels and demons? They tell me most people are a little of each; salt and pepper, black and white, black and blue, ah, but you look so good in red, my dear.
Mhm, but I’ve been to thirty-thousand feet a hundred times in half a dozen countries, and I’m telling you now; there is no heaven. Just more space. And you, the dust particle that floated through… space.
If there were a God, believe you me, I’d have been smote by my own actions long ago, and the Devil’d have collected his son for an eon of tooth-gnashing, bone-grinding fun n’ flames. No angel ever took his higher might upon himself to stay my hand, and the only demons skittering around in the dark are the ones in my disgruntled, deranged, and disjointed head. The things that go ‘bump’ in the night are generally cat-burglars and home-invasion rapists. Either of which I’d dispatch none too quickly. How else would they learn from their mistake?
Don’t get me wrong… I enjoy the concept of my own insignificance just as much, it just doesn’t prevent me from being more careful. In fact, it probably makes it worse. The concept that, with just one wrong move I could end up on the cadaver’s slab, cold meat with no more liquor on my lips. That’s what gives me the rush. That moment when you’re high as fuck on adrenalin and you’re straddling the knife edge between consciousness and annihilation, mmm…
It’s like that moment when you’re on another hum-drum God-forsaken flight from nowhere’sville to couldn’tgiveafuck and you deign to glance out the window as you’re moving over the freeway at five-hundred-miles-an-hour with the roar of the engines shaking your lungs and the tremor of wind-shear rattling your bones and the world hurling away at speed, and in an instant, all the cars and minivans and trucks have become little more than bugs running frantically for little bits of whatever and you know each one has a ten-dollar-latte and boss who pays them too little, a spouse who pays them no mind, kids who scream incessantly, and an affair they’re neck-deep-in-the-shit to get to. And for a moment you may wonder who’s going to a funeral, or nursing a heart-decimating break-up, or about to put the business end of a revolver in their mouth. Who’s laughing… who’s crying… and from the new clarity of your lofty view… you can see that none of really matters at all.
Not. At. All.
You’re in your first-class seat, whole, and at normal ‘proportion’ for this thing we call ‘life.’ But below you, the ants are scrambling, and while your conscious mind ‘knows,’ it understands, that those are real people down there… But you can see now… they’re just ants. And God’s an angry kid with an ant farm… and a magnifying glass. It’s not the Devil who’s going to burn you.
So you lean back in your airline seat and press the call button, because the only thing that matters now is a mini-bottle. Because… because at any moment now you could be doing a five-hundred-mile-an-hour belly-flop into the side of mountain with jet fuel melting the flesh of your contemptable bones.
Better make it a double.
–excerpt from my upcoming novel “NIGHTBOYS.” This character, Jynx, is a psychopathic assassin, also something of a nihilist.