Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Gone Postal

“No, no, no, you stupid bitch. I didn’t wake up one day and decide to be a mass murderer.”

“Then what happened?”

“You know what happened.”

“No, I don’t, that’s why I’ve come here. I want to know. Really.”

“You just want to see me in here. I don’t care. I’m glad.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me why.”

“Look, it’s as simple as can be. Before today, no one at that place knew my name. They didn’t even care. I was just the asshole that made copies and typed and answered phones. They didn’t know me at all. Hell, they didn’t even see me.”

“And that’s why you did it? Because they didn’t pay enough attention to you?”

“Fuck you! Pay enough attention? To them, I didn’t even exist! I was invisible. Just like I’ve been my whole life. Invisible. Nobody ever sees me. But they see me now. You see me now, don’t you? And before today, you didn’t even know my name.”

“How can you say that? I love you…”

“Oh please. Don’t even start. You never paid any attention to me. There was always something else, another kid, another job, another fucking reason why I wasn’t important. But hey, it’s cool. Things have turned around now.”

“What do you mean? Your life is ruined!”

“What the fuck do you know about it? Have you seen the news? People know my name and they know what I did!”

“What did you do?”

“Listen, don't think you can trick me. You want me to admit it. Okay, fine. I’m glad I did it. People will know my name today. All over the world they will know my name. I’m the one who got sick of that fucking job and I knew what I would do if I got the chance. As soon as they asked me to make the coffee, I was ready. Coffee and cyanide. Ha! Two whole pots of it.”

“Oh my God! Do you know how many people you killed?”

“Twenty-two so far. Right?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Really? Wow, this is turning out better than I thought.”

“Are you crazy? They are going to execute you for this!”

“So what? There are worse things than dying.”

“Like what? What is worse?”

“Being alone. Being invisible. So I’m fine with everything. People will be telling stories about me for years and years after I’m gone. And maybe, just maybe, some big shot working in some downtown office won’t think he’s too good to fucking say good morning. I made it better for the next one.”

“I have to go."

"Will you come back tomorrow?"

"Sure, if you want me to."

"Will you do something for me?"

"If I can. What is it?"

"Bring me a newspaper. The headline is gonna be kickass. Can you bring it with you when you come back? Please?"

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