An excerpt from Bar Fight, the first chapter.
It all began with a bar fight.
Everything that happened to me, unfortunate and horrific, began with a bar fight. It’s that simple. It all began with a fucking bar fight. That’s it, that’s all that there’s to it.
Nothing more.
Now, here I am in a dark room, tied up and waiting to be killed. My hands are wrapped behind my back, and my smokes are in my pocket. With my luck they’re probably crushed by now.
Or, I don’t have a lighter with me.
I hope I’m wrong about the death part. I really am. The only thing I’m completely sure about is the bar fight. I know that happened because I started it.
I know that happened because I was there. I was involved. I started it.
I know because I was the one who broke his jaw.
Well, I have no reason to doubt that their intention is to kill me. All sources point to that. All clues lead to yes. I’m tied on the ground; the guy I fought threw me in here.
I know because I broke his jaw. It’s because of me that it’s wired shut.
And I wonder; I wonder how they will do it? I keep thinking, if only to keep myself busy, if only to satiate my that desire to think, is exactly how they are going to slaughter me.
Will they just leave me here to die? To starve? To sit wallowing in my own misery?
Take me out into the cold and shoot me? Etch a cross into the bullet head so that it tears my insides to small insignificant shreds? It would probably be easier if they just shot me, but I’m hoping for something a lot bigger and better—a glorious and elaborate death. A bigger bang for my buck, so to speak.
I want special effects and everything associated with it.
I don’t want a limited budget.
Perhaps try and scheme something out of a James Bond movie, where a villain sets up an elaborate killing machine that will give me just enough time to escape and save the day.
But this isn’t the movies.
No. Not by any chance.
Unlike the movies I will fail here—this is inevitable. I will fail miserably and disappoint the audience who paid to see it. They will see me unavoidable down fall.
I know this because I started this.
This and only this, do I hold to be the truth. I know because I broke his jaw.
I cling to this fact if only to pass the time between now and the point where they kill me. Be it a few hours, a few moments. Whatever.
And I want my death to be costly:
Two engineers.
Six designers on a six figure salary working six days a week.
A multimillion dollar prototype.
Then add two more engineers just to improve it, making escape virtually impossible. They need to work harder and make it foolproof in its entirety. There will be no chance of escape, not this time.
And add a few test subjects. Give it a test run, just to work out any bugs.
Some final modifications. A tweak here and a tweak there, just to be sure. Why concern yourself with a mistake.
A test on a monkey to get PETA involved.
And after all that, I want to be placed in it for the maiden voyage.
The truth is that I just don’t want to be shot in the back of the head. I don’t want an ordinary death. I would take a firing squad over the lethal injection. Instead of the five grams of sodium thiopental, I want a brick thrown at the back side of my head.
I want to be stoned, just like in the old days. Bury me in sand and pass out bricks, would that disappoint?
No need for a 10 mg dose of pancuronium bromide. I would prefer 10,000 volts of electricity from a chair. Put that shit in my vein. I want to hear myself getting cooked. I want to feel it.
Potassium chloride is for not meant for me, I was meant for something greater. Give me a nuclear device. I’ll even pull the trigger. Fireworks with a countdown.
Boom. This is me getting disintegrated.
Boom. This is me falling apart.
I want lasers and flashing lights, thousands of buttons and plasma screens. Even some of the optional accessories. Passenger side airbags and sunroof. Leather seats for the operator and patient, me. GPS and a DVD player.
These are my demands. This is what I want.
It has to be shiny. Glittering silver and chrome. Add a diamond shifter. Or even better: a hand made, silver skull with ruby eyes—the final touch.
This is what I want. I deserve it. I went through enough shit as it was. Give me this just to make it seem worthwhile.
Follow up: Add a few more test subjects. Some final tweaking. Just to make sure. It has to be perfect.
That way there is no excuse.
All they would need then is a little time to manufacture it. I could even stay in this room; no need for a hotel. I really think it would be worth it. Just to see the final product. All I would need is a water dish and some bread every once in a while. I could shit in the corner. This is what I want, these are my demands. I will not settle for anything else.
But let’s be honest, it’s easier to choke me.
It’s easier to bleed me.
It’s easier to burn me.
I’m going to be shot, I just know I am. This is my fate. Proven over the course of time, proven over millions of test subjects. The research has been done.
Boom. Just like that.
It’s bizarre what you think about when you know that you are going to die. As your life flashes before your eyes, you realize that you are average: O taught me this. He explained it to me on a train, where everyone was listening with their ‘got to get to work’ attitudes. Through their morning daze, that brief moment right before the coffee took effect, everyone somehow became offended. Somehow they managed to muster up the energy to get pissed off.
The truth is that nobody wants to be average; nobody even dares to think that they are in fact average, until you die that is. Then, the last thing you cling on to is how you are going to die—an average death. Let’s face it, this is reality.
A heart attack: quiet and quick.
Car accident: too common.
A plane crashes on your house: that’s a start.
A plane that you are flying on crashes into your own house: ironic but definitely different. But that’s not going to happen.
As much as you want it to, it won’t. And, death by a multimillion invention created just for one reason and that is to kill you?
This is for me. This is what I want. I can see it here in the darkness that’s around me. I can see it and I can feel it because when your body stops working, you make things up. Entertainment brought on by boredom.
The marvel of sensory deprivation.
I guess it’s the little things in life you have no control over that make you want the best for yourself. The things we fear the most make us want the most for ourselves. O explained that people strive for successful careers because the fear of failure is such powerful motivation. The fear of failure is why you wake up to go to work every morning. We both lacked that fear.
I guess it applies to this as well. Things we have no control over are the things that control us.
Like a cigarette. I could really go for a fucking smoke. If I wasn’t tied with my hands behind my back, I might be able to reach my pack in my pocket. If I could reach that pack I could smoke. If I could smoke, I wouldn’t be thinking about ways I could be dying. What we have here is called a beautiful chain reaction one created by me for me. Instead, I could be soothing my train-wreck nerves. Put them back on the rail just in time for another collision.
Shit, did things ever take a turn for the worst when I came out to Chicago. I never expected anything like this to happen.
Not entirely. That’s a lie. Actually, I expected to die but not quite yet. Somewhere down the road, but not for a few more years at the bare minimum. I was thinking that I would have a family of my own standing, over my casket as they lowered me into the dirt. A cigarette would be nice.
The weird thing is that it started out ok. Things were going very well. In fact, picture perfect. Before this fight, you could put my life on a postcard and mail it to your friends. Had money, had her, had a car and a great friend. Nice place, the best designer clothes, and all the dope I could smoke. And for the first time in my life, I was buying cigarettes by the carton. No loose packs, just full cartons.
I was saving money.
Now that I am about to die, another thing manages to come to mind: Fate, dearest and most unfortunate Fate, fuck you. That’s right. Everything is predetermined and I hope Fate getting fucked is not an exception to this rule, but a very realistic possibility. Fate, fuck you with a big rubber dick.
I keep thinking I hear footsteps; gentle steps creeping up on me.
Maybe I want to hear footsteps. Maybe I want to have them walk in. Maybe I want to be shot already, taken out, disposed of in the Chicago River. Maybe this whole sensory depravation thing is telling me to hear steps. It’s telling me that I am now ready to be dealt with.
I am ready for Fate.
When there are no steps out there in the light, I am a heavily disappointed.
But oh man, wouldn’t that crazy laser, shit contraption be awesome. The only thing I could think would be better then the laser machine would be if I stayed put in Iowa. That would be something else.
At least, I’d still have a fighting chance, I’d have a possibility of success, or a slight hint of good fortune, instead of this darkness around me.
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