It sat hard, motionless. At times benevolent. At times cold Statistic hungry for eats. Frank stared at it hibernating on the coffee table. Outside? Still air, sound of big rigs in the background.
Frank ran grainy, yellowed films of partisans being shot by the Bolsheviks in 1917 Russia.
What happens when you die? How many con men had he heard on boarder stations XERF, XEMO and XLO. Send your money to Brother Rosie or Reverend Ike and go heaven. Frank had is own way of going there and it was free. “Franks Plan For Living On Nothing.”
Frank bolted off the bed grabbed his 21 and ran out from a the down the Medicaid, aluminum and wood death chamber.
He knew he’d do it someday, blow his brain wide open like pieces off lobster on the half shell. Today wasn’t the day. Instead, he sat on an rusted fuel barrel head supported by odd-job fingers with torn flesh and both real mineral and manufactured crap; tucked under his finger nails. Tears like large, wet balls began to roll down his cheeks.
Where had he gone wrong?

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