Bang! You're Dead.

It's really quite simple, isn't it? Aim. Squeeze. Pop! Someone's dead. How great is that? You walk into a room. You're the only one with a gun. You can call all the shots. Literally. You become the 900 pound gorilla. You can do whatever the hell you want. You can make everyone else do whatever you want them to do. You can kill them. Some of them. All of them. Pop! Pop! Pop!

You dream about having that power, even if only for a short time. It needn't take long. Just thinking about it is intoxicating. It makes you hard. Hard as blue steel. You could penetrate a post. And it's so bloody simple. Pop! You revel in anticipation. You see the incredulity, then terror, panic. The mad scramble for safety. You love it. Total control. This one lives. That one dies. Pop! You get goose bumps. They're all grovelling assholes. You are the King. You needn't say a word. The gun says it all. Pop!

You'll probably die from the muzzle of another gun, but that's okay. That's the glory, isn't it? That's the moment of reckoning. Add up the score.

Monday it was 32 to 1. You could even say 33 to zip since he offed himself. How sweet, no? "Made it, ma. Top of the world." Pop!

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