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The Umpteenth Seppuku acrylic on canvas

He sat in the dark, smoking cigarette after cigarette, placing two fingers to the side of his head, to his temple, letting his hammer-thumb drop silently. Another drag off the cigarette. Thinking of all he gained, then all that was lost. Somehow, it almost broke even, but never really did. The light buzzed like a tireless fly trapped in a mason jar. Maybe I'll do it this time, he thought. Maybe I'm serious enough. He placed two fingers to the side of his head, tobacco smoke rising from the cigarette pinched between them. His thumb clicked down. He stubbed out the filter, lit another. Thought of everything he had seen in life, and the things in head that would be lost when his heart stopped beating. I had almost forgotten what my question was by the time he answered: "It was slow at first, and subtle. They'd come to me, wearing nice clothing, asking me for things: a few shots here, a few pills there. I smiled and touched their heads, murmuring "mine, you're mine, my lovelies." I had no idea. Lately, they've been comming in throngs, wearing their best, their uniforms, their perfect faces, their warpaint and their rain, their fedoras and black ties -the shit that got dug out for special occasions, occasions where they were to stand tall and shine. The things they'd ask for lately had been more obvious. Hypodermic needles and rat poison. A straightrazor and a cigarette. The last of them have been comming to me, all dressed in suits, perfect pallbearers, one by one, all pointing guns at me, waiting, expectantly. Faces like buddha. Faces like mine. And with each one, I gently take the guns from their hands, kiss them on the lips, the word "Yes" on my tounge. I place the barrel in the mouth of each one, look them in their eyes, and say goodbye before I peel the backs of their skulls off with a flash and a sound like a bark from a dog made of black powder and regret. With each pull of the trigger, on each one that looks just like the last, I hope that this is the last I will have seen of these motherfuckers. "Thanks," I spit, as If I'm upset rather than relieved. For defaulting me into the role of death, my flesh walked away from me, wrapped in the bare bones and role of the man in the black hat. This is the way the suicides have been."