As I watched the shotglass travel through the air, it seemed almost in slow motion. Maybe it was the effect of the whiskey. Fuck it, I thought to myself, as I watched it shatter to bits against the back wall. I bear no remorse for its loss. It was taking way too long using it as the middle-man. Drinking straight from the bottle is much faster. Each time I set the bottle back down, I give the revolver on the table a respectful glance, with the single bullet loaded into it.
The life of a private investigator is never easy. You have to be ready to deal with the fact that no one loves you. Even the people who hire you think you are scum. That's why they came through your door. They hired scum to catch scum committing adultery, or pretending to be your child to get a chunk of your family treasury. No one likes you. You're alone. You're very alone.
Eyeballing the pack of cigarettes on the counter, I ponder the ratio to that of the ammo in the gun. One bullet, one cigarette. I promised myself tonight that I would quit smoking. I would leave that cigarette in the pack and I would look at it every day and tell the inanimate object, which was unable to reply, that I am stronger than it. This was before I had decided to get horrifyingly drunk and shoot myself in the face. I could end it all now, or I culd quit smoking. I'd rather I blew myself away now rather than being on a respirator in ten years. Death has better ways I often said to myself, than sitting in a hospital at age 63, unable to blow out a lit match.
The last option was quitting smoking and living my life the way it is. I know no other trade. By choosing to do what I continue to do, I choose a life of being hated and alone. Death definitely has better ways than that. I said that to myself as I picked up the .38 and cocked the hammer.
No.
If this is to be done tonight, then I'm not ready. I released the hammer gently and set the gun back down, returning to my now half-empty bottle of whiskey.
That's when the knock came.
Without waiting for my response, the door swung slowly open and in walked the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Her flowing golden hair fell in graces of godly blessing across the shoulder straps of her immaculate red dress. Her flawless face was the perfect compliment to the perfect body. Her dress hugged each curve as I looked her up and down to her hands, one of which was holding a nickel-plated automatic pistol.
She walked in with intent. She intended to kill me. This suspicion was confirmed as she raised the pistol to aim at my forehead. Judging the gun, I could tell it was a simple purse gun, but it had at least 7 shots in it, and she could fill me with enough holes to kill me, regardless of her aim. My aim was immaculate, however, and I could easily dive from this chair, grab the gun on the way down, and plug her one in the skull using the only bullet I had brought to the office tonight.
But I didn't.
It didn't matter who she was. She could be an ex-wife that I took photos of and ruined her chance at 50% of the former husband's estate. She could be a disgruntled employee that I caught skimming the till at the behest of her employer. She could be my original senior prom date that I left in a field with her panties around her ankles. They were both blonde, after all.
There's something strangely erotic about a girl that beautiful with a gun to your head. The feeling of being powerless, even in the presence of being able to regain your power, was intriguing. I had intended to die tonight anyway. Death has better ways, and she could easily remove the dilemma I'd been having by doing the job for me.
However, her lip began to quiver. A tear ran from her eye. She was having second thoughts. The gun began to shake in her hands. It was not long before before she dropped into the chair in front of my desk. She let the gun fall to the floor, and held her immaculate face in her hands as she began to violently sob and weep.
The evening had just begun. I pushed the whiskey bottle across the desk, expecting her to have a drink. We had all night to figure out what she was doing here, and half a bottle of whiskey to take the edge off.
My life had flashed before my eyes, and I realized, being hated is better than being shot in the face. Death has better ways I reminded myself, and lit the cigarette.
