Suicide Is Painless

 

A Short Story

By

Curt Collier

 

           He was not sure when the decision to kill himself was made. One minute it was an ephemeral thought on the horizon of his consciousness and the next he was making decisions as if it was a foregone conclusion. He was driving north on US 287, his hometown of Dumas, Texas barely a glow in the rearview mirror of his pick-up. His hands were still shaking and the blood on his knuckles had yet to dry. Sammi Smith was on the radio – Bill Mack’s US-1 Trucking Show live from the studios of WBAP 820AM in beautiful Downtown Dallas – singing “Help Me Make It Through The Night” in her well-worn whiskey-and-cigarette outlaw country vocals. The cloudless sky was littered with stars and the moon was nowhere to be seen. He had been driving for almost half an hour and had yet to encounter another vehicle on the road, either northbound or south. The second time he crossed the solid yellow line into the opposite lane, he pulled over to the shoulder of the road and killed the engine.

          That’s the third death I’ve caused in the last hour. Would to God I could bring her back as easily as turning a key.

          He closed his eyes and let his head fall backward to rest against the rear window. He breathed in and out as deeply as he could to clear his mind and regain some semblance of control over his body. His hands began to hurt and the tightness in his chest loosened. He was fairly certain he had broken at least one knuckle on his left hand while he had Burke pinned down, beating his face in with both hands. He could still feel Burke’s nose collapse under the first punch and the crunching sounds the cartilage had made as he continued to hit him, long after he was dead. He had no remorse for what he had done to Burke. Burke had it coming.

          You don’t get into bed with another man’s wife and not know that there’ll be repercussions. Sumbitch got what he deserved.

          But Donna…

          The bile shot up from his belly into his throat. He jerked the door handle and fell onto the pavement on his knees, vomit shooting from his mouth like a geyser. The acid burned his throat and his nose. What little control he had earlier reasserted over his flesh was lost again as he gasped for air between mouthfuls of puke. He did not know how long he was on his hands and knees retching onto the pavement, but eventually his stomach stopped clenching and he was able to breathe once again. He wiped his mouth and chin on the long sleeve of his flannel work shirt and struggled to his feet, holding on to the door for support.

          “And you? What about you? What do you deserve?” a voice inside his head said, the voice that his mother taught him was his conscience.

          Death. I deserve to die. Not for what I did to Burke, but for what I did to Donna…

          *  *  *

 

          The third shift at Peyton’s Seed and Feed Mill in Amarillo poured out of the granary less than ten minutes after their shift was scheduled to start. All ten of the men – and the lone woman, Tara Butters, who was more masculine than all but the most manly of her co-workers – had huge grins on their faces, fat bone-in hams wrapped in cloth and netting under their arms or on their shoulders, and crisp white envelopes in hands. Within each envelope was a Christmas bonus, the first anyone at the mill had seen in almost ten years. Things were looking up in the eighties! The economy was strong and an honest-to-Gawd cowboy was in the White House, kickin’ ass and takin’ names!

          Old Man Peyton had met the third shift just inside the door and stopped them before they clocked in. He was a short man who was all curves, not a sharp edge or pointed feature about him. His gray hair was thinning and refused to be forced into any sort of style, preferring to flutter about his head like bees around a hive giving him a slightly wild look. Tonight he was all smiles as he shook each of his night workers’ hands, gifting everyone with a smile and a hearty “Thank You for making this Peyton’s best year ever!” and a sincere “Don’t open your envelope yet, folks. Wait and open ‘em all at once.” When the last shoulder was clapped, the last hand shook and the last envelope distributed, Old Man Peyton lifted a handkerchief into the air with his right hand and said, as he dropped the handkerchief like the starting flag at a NASCAR rally, “Ready? Set? Open ‘em up!”

          At first the workers were quiet, staring at the contents of the envelopes in disbelief. Then Tara let loose with a “Hot diggity dam!” that was like throwing a match onto a pile of logs that had been doused with gasoline. Everyone else followed her lead with exclamations ranging from “Hallelujah! Thank you, Jesus!” through “You da man, Mista Peyton!” right up to Javier Martinez’s “Madre de Dios! Es muy bien, Jefe!” The source of their good will was a one thousand dollar check; for many that bonus represented almost a month’s take-home pay.

          But Old Man Peyton was not finished.

          Once the hoopla over the extraordinary bonus died down, he informed them the mill was closing until the day after New Year’s Day and they were getting the next two weeks off, with pay. Finally, once he had the chance to be heard over the second round of applause and cheers, he pointed them to a table by the door that was laden with Virginia hams and told them to pick one out, go home, enjoy the holiday season and be back to work after the first of the year ready to work even harder and make next year even better.

          They milled around in the gravel parking lot for a few minutes after Old Man Peyton had locked up the granary and went home. They had come to work expecting to work all night and most of them were not willing to just call it a night and go back home. Someone mentioned that it was not yet ten-thirty and the Lucky Horseshoe Bar was open for another three and a half hours. After a quick parlay, most of them decided to have a few drinks before returning home. After all, the common reasoning went, no one would expect them home before dawn, so why not take advantage of a free night out? They began piling into pick-ups and cars by the twos and threes; and Tara slipped astride her fully restored 1941 Harley Davidson knucklehead. She started for the highway but turned around and headed back to where Timothy Little stood beside his pick-up watching the procession with a smile, the ham still resting on his left shoulder and the white envelope sticking out of his right shirt pocket.

          “C’Mon, T! Surely you can have one drink with us before you head back t’ th’ ol’ ball an’ chain? It’ll take you less’an an hour t’ drive home so, even if you bend th’ elbow with th’ guys, you’ll still be home t’ tuck that little chickie inta bed before midnight. Whaddya say?”

          “No, thanks, Tara. I’m goin’ on home an’ surprisin’ Donna with th’ bonus an’ with th’ news that we’ll be able t’ go down t’ Dallas t’ her brother’s for Christmas after all, now that th’ granary’s closing up for a coupla weeks,” Tim said.

          Tara grinned lecherously at Tim and said, “Meat an’ money. Not much more a girl could ask for, is there, T? But if Donna ever gets tired of th’ meat, you just send her on over my way, y’hear?” She tossed off a two-fingered salute and spun the Harley in the gravel as she headed out to catch up with the others.

          A short few hours later, Tim was wondering how different his life would have been if he had just had a couple of drinks.

          *  *  *

 

          He drove past the driveway, like he always did, and backed into the garage. He hefted the ham onto his shoulder, closed the pick-up door with his hip and grabbed the backdoor knob with his right hand. After locking the door behind him, he laid the ham on the bar and walked down the hall to the bedroom. He could hear the shower running and assumed Donna was getting ready for bed. He heard John Wayne and Robert Mitchum talking about the problem with women and wondered when Donna had started watching westerns. The bedroom door was partially open and he pushed it out of his way as he entered the room saying, “Hey, Babe, watchin’ El Dorado? I thought you hated those ol’ shoot ‘em…”

          Whatever else he was going to say was lost because it was not Donna watching television, it was his next door neighbor Riley Burke.

          The bed – his bed! – was in a shambles. The bedspread was in a pile on the floor and the sheets were half untucked as if someone had been in a violent rush to get into bed. Burke was lying on his side of the bed – his side! – propped up on his pillow – his pillow! – Burke’s naked body uncovered by the bedclothes, still damp with sweat. A bottle of Chivas Regal – his bottle that he had been saving for New Year’s Eve, no less! – sat on the nightstand half-emptied. Or maybe it’s half-full? Reckon it’s all in how you look at it, huh? A fresh cigarette dangled from Burke’s mouth, the ash falling off the tip onto his bare chest as he jerked upright. Donna was not in the room, but he saw her bra and panties discarded on the floor at the foot of the bed, the denim shorts and UT Longhorn t-shirt she had been wearing when she kissed him goodbye as he left for work were strewn across the floor, too.

          “Didja say somethin’, Suga’?” Donna called from the bathroom over the din of the shower.

          When Tim heard her voice, something inside him snapped. He crossed over a bright line from which there was no return. He launched himself forward, across the footboard, and landed atop the naked Burke who was just reacting to the fact that he had been caught breaking both the seventh and the tenth commandments. Tim scooted himself forward and pinned Burke’s arms down with his knees as he straddled Burke’s chest. For just a second he had a ridiculous thought, I have a naked man on my bed between my legs. I wonder what Tara would make of that. And then all rational thought left him. He started pounding his fists into Burke’s face, the first blow breaking Burke’s nose and each succeeding blow building on the damage of its predecessor until Burke’s face was unrecognizable. Sometime during his berserker rage, Donna must have heard the commotion because he had a fuzzy recollection of Donna pulling on his upper arm with hands still wet from the shower. He felt like he was a spectator at a sporting event watching as someone else destroyed Burke’s face and someone else’s naked and wet wife tugged on his arm pleading for him to stop. He pushed Donna offhandedly and she backpedaled into the bathroom where her feet went out from under her on the slick floor. Her arms windmilled comically like a cartoon character who had run out of solid ground about four steps back. Then she lost the battle for balance and fell backward, the back of her skull smacking the porcelain sink with a sickening crack. The life went out of her eyes and she was dead before her body hit the tiles.

          Blood flowed freely from the gash in Donna’s skull, turning the cornflower blue tiles scarlet.

          Blood was splattered across the bed, pillows and headboard from the savage beating he had given Burke.

          Blood was on his knuckles and the front of his shirt. He could taste blood on his lips and he knew it was not his own.

          Blood.

          Blood everywhere.

          Burke’s blood.

          Donna’s blood.

          Blood.

          No matter where he looked, everything he saw was seen through a blood-covered lens.

          He had to get out before he drowned in the blood.

          He half-fell off the bed and then tripped as his feet were entangled in the discarded bedspread. He got back up and ran. Ran from the horror. Ran from the blood.

          He did not remember going out the back door. Nor did he remember getting into his pick-up or starting it. The first thing he remembered was being unwilling to wait for the garage door to open all the way and gunning the truck through the half-opened door, causing the metal of the door to screech like a harpy as the pick-up drug beneath it.

          And for the next few minutes all he saw was red.

          *  *  *

 

          He half climbed half fell back into the pick-up and closed the door. However he planned on killing himself it would not be by freezing to death on a December Panhandle night, nor would it be by getting rundown by a car or truck. No, he would do it himself; he would not put the burden of his death on some hapless or unlucky motorist. He started the engine and pulled out onto the highway. He did not have a destination in mind – other than the grave – so north was as good a direction as any. The Midnight Cowboy continued to spin vinyl, hawk coffee and truckstops and generally do his best to keep the over-the-road truckers awake and alert. After a news update from ABC and the national weather, Bill announced the new single from Eddie Rabbit, “You Can’t Run From Love.”

          No, but I can run from the blood. I can run and run and keep on runnin’ ‘til I die…

          He drove for a little while longer, through songs by Willie Nelson, Charlie Pride, Tanya Tucker and the Statler Brothers, until he was fairly certain he was approaching the Oklahoma border. He thought back but was unable to recall seeing any mile markers, highway signs or even billboards since he had resumed his northbound journey. Sometime in the last few minutes he had also begun to notice that the sky was clouding up and it was getting misty. Within a few miles the mist was thick enough that he had to flip on his foglamps and windshield wipers. Right in the middle of “May The Bird Of Paradise Fly Up Your Nose” by Little Jimmy Dickens, the radio signal began to fade out to be replaced by static. He reached down and turned the knob but found nothing from the bottom of the dial to the top. He turned the radio off and gripped the steering wheel with both hands and slowed down to accommodate the ever-thickening fog.

          It was well after one in the morning when he saw a neon green glow on the side of the road. As he approached the green intensified and finally clarified into a sign above a roadside café. “Cyril’s Roadhouse” shone through the fog above a long, low log lodge that had been converted into a restaurant. A desire to stop overwhelmed him and he was braking and turning into the gravel parking lot before realized it. He pulled up near the front door that had yet another neon sign – this time a garish pink that made him squint – that said “We Never Close.” He killed the engine and got out of the pick-up. He dusted himself off but was unable to do anything about the bloodstains on his shirt and hands. Still not certain why he had stopped or what he was going to do, he walked up to the door, pushed it open and entered.

          The top of the door brushed against a bell that was hung above the frame and its brassy clangor announced his entry. There was no one sitting at the tables or along the narrow formica counter but before the door had closed a man’s voice called from somewhere back in the kitchen, which was partially visible through a square pass-through behind the counter that had one of the old time stainless steel revolving wheels where orders were clipped for the cook to retrieve, “Sit where ya want. I’ll be witcha in a minute.”

          He took a seat near the end of the counter beneath a television mounted high on the wall that showed the exterior of the building. He could see his pick-up and most of the parking lot. Not much to watch, he thought.

          Batwing doors that led to the kitchen swung open and an older man walked through them. The old man’s shoes clicked against the parquet floor as he approached. He was a thin fellow with once-red hair that was now a strange combination of gray, faded orange and dusty blonde. His hair was pulled behind his head into a barely contained pony-tail that fell well below his shoulders. He had several days’ growth of beard that was a mélange of color like his hair. When he smiled, tobacco-stained yellow teeth peeked out from beneath chapped lips that were so dark they appeared almost blue. His eyes were yet another curiosity; the left one was hazel, bordering on gold and the right one was a pale blue that was barely darker than a cool glass of ice-water on a clear summer day. He stood behind the counter wiping his hands on a once-white apron that now looked like a canvass that Jackson Pollack had practiced on and then threw away. At the top of the apron was an orange plastic nametag that read “Cyril.”

          “Ain’t no menu this time o’ night, boy,” Cyril said. “I got fresh coffee, cold tea and bottled Coke t’ drink. I kin fix ya a left-ova meatloaf sammich an’ some ‘tater chips or I kin rustle y’up some eggs an’ toast fresh off’n da’ grill. Yer choice.”

          “Coke a sandwich, I guess,” he said.

          “Ya guess?” Cyril said, “Ain’t no guessin’ game, boy. Ya gotta tell me whatcha want.”

          “Coke and a sandwich. I’d like a Coke and a sandwich, please,” he said.

          “’At’s more like it,” Cyril said. He bent over and reached beneath the counter. When he straightened up he had a meatloaf sandwich – the meatloaf was expelling small whiffs of steam on the sides of the sandwich – and a pile of potato chips on a blue melmac dinner plate and a glass bottle of Coca-Cola that was so cold it was frosted. Cyril put them on the counter, smiled a nicotine-enriched smile and said, “Howzzat f’ service?”

          For the second time that night, Tim felt his chest tighten and adrenalin begin to flood his system. What is this place? What am I doing here? He was on the edge of panic now and wanted nothing more than to get out of this strange diner. He was planning to kill himself, sure, but he wanted to die on his terms, and his fight-or-flight instinct was screaming inside him for flight.

          “Now y’ might as well, settle down, Tiny Tim, ‘cause y’ ain’t goin’ nowhere ‘til we’re done talkin’. An’ truth is, where y’ gonna go ain’t no place t’ be in a hurry t’ get t’, lemme tell ya. Ever’ time I gotta go down there, ‘ts’all I kin do t’ keep from screamin’ m’ fool head off,” Cyril said and pointed a nicotine-yellow index finger toward the blue plate special, “’Elluva last meal, ain’t it? But if y’ don’t like th’ food, mebbe next time ya’ll think ‘fore y’ lose y’ temper an’ go all Terminator on y’ wife an’ her paramour.” Cyril stopped and looked thoughtful for a moment, tapping the nasty looking finger against his stubble covered chin. “Guess ya don’t know about th’ Terminator, huh. That ain’t f’ a coupla years yet, an’ it ain’t likely y’re gonna get a next time, either, huh?” Cyril grinned at him and for just a moment the yellowed teeth were pointed and Tim could see a forked tongue dancing behind them and Cyril’s eyes flashed red like fire before returning to normal – or what passed for normal in this place.

          “So, Tiny Tim, while y’re eatin’, let’s chat,” Cyril said and pointed to the plate again. This time an overwhelming hunger overtook him and he picked up the meatloaf sandwich and began to eat while Cyril continued, “Heard any good jokes lately? Here’s one, but stop me if y’ve heard it before.” Cyril cleared his throat and began, “A man comes home from work and finds his next door neighbor in bed with his slut of a wife…” Tim chewed the sandwich and swallowed, washing it down with gulps of the cold Coke that were so strong and acidic it burned his tongue. He could not stop eating long enough to respond to Cyril. The fear in the pit of his stomach was slowly giving way to anger again.

          Stop calling me Tiny Tim! I’ve hated that nickname all my life. How do you know this? How do you know me? How dare you call Donna a slut!

          “… No, wait, why tell this joke? What is the old saying? ‘A picture is worth a thousand words,’” Cyril continued, his good ol’ boy accent fading away. He cleared his throat again and when he resumed speaking his voice was a rich baritone, smooth as seventy-year-old scotch, with just a hint of a New England accent, “Watch the television, Tiny Tim. Watch and remember.”

          Cyril flicked his finger at the television and the picture of the parking lot disappeared in white static and was replaced by a picture of Donna and Burke in the bed. They rolled across the bed, taking turns atop each other until their passions were spent and Donna rolled off Burke and lay back on the bed. They were both sweaty and their breaths came in labored gasps. “I’m gonna take a shower, Suga’. But don’tcha fall asleep again. You barely made it out the door last week before Tim came in,” Donna laughed and stroked his bare stomach, “I like excitement, but a girl can only take so much.” She rolled off the bed and walked around to the bathroom, obviously comfortable being naked with Burke. As she passed his side of the bed, Burke reached out and slapped her bare butt playfully. She giggled and danced away into the bathroom, leaving the door partially open. Burke took a swig out of the bottle of Chivas without bothering to pour it into a glass and then picked up the remote. He turned on the television and surfed through a dozen channels until he came to one of the movie channels showing El Dorado. He put the remote down and settled back to enjoy the show.

          On the little television, Tim saw himself walk through the bedroom door.

          “Hey, Babe, watchin’ El Dorado? I thought you hated those ol’ shoot ‘em…” TV Tim froze and looked puzzled.

          “Didja say somethin’, Suga’?”

          He watched as TV Tim beat Burke to death, as TV Tim pushed Donna back into the bathroom, as her head was smashed on the sink, and as the stomach-wrenching sound of her death brought TV Tim back to his senses. He watched as the realization of what he had done struck home and TV Tim fled from the bedroom.

          How did you get this? How is it playing on the tv? Oh, God, am I crazy? Am I dead? Oh, God… Oh, God… Oh, God help me!

          “Too late to be calling on G…,” Cyril struggled with the word, “G… G…” Cyril grabbed his throat and massaged it as if he were trying to coax down a contrary piece of food. “Well, you know Who. It’s too late to be calling on Him. Your road is set and your destination is finalized, Tiny Tim. You’re locked and loaded and headed for Hell. You’re not passing ‘Go’ and you’re not collecting two-hundred dollars. Hey, Tiny Tim, does this ring a bell?” Cyril snapped his fingers and the image on the television was replaced with a picture of a rock concert. A shirtless young man was singing – or screaming, if one will – into a microphone while another young man dressed as a British School Boy was massacring a guitar next to him. Tim could not understand many of the words but he caught the phrase “Highway to Hell” being repeated over and over. “Boy, that Angus can play, can’t he? And Bonn? Well, let’s just say the Boss liked him so much that he… how shall I put it?… He expedited Bonn’s departure. We’ve had him downstairs for a couple of years now and if you thought he could scream on stage, just wait until you hear him screaming now. He can wail!”

          Cyril watched the television for a few more moments, lifting his right hand over his head, his first and fourth fingers extended from his fist, his head bobbing up and down and his eyes closed in enjoyment. When the food was gone off the blue plate and the Coke bottle was empty, Cyril opened his eyes and snapped his fingers. The TV went black with a click of static electricity, and Cyril said, “Well enough of that. Your meal’s done, Danny Boy, so it’s time to tee cee a little bee,” Cyril stopped as if waiting for a response from Tim. When no response was forthcoming, Cyril frowned and said, “You really are a dense one, aren’t you Tiny Tim? It’s time to take care of the business at hand.”

          Cyril took the plate and bottle and placed them back under the counter. He straightened up, took his apron off and tossed it through the hole in the wall into the kitchen. He ran his hands across his hair straightening it and then started around the counter. His shoes clicked with each step. “Let me come around so we can talk turkey like two civilized gents, okay?” Cyril came around the end of the counter and Tim saw that it was not Cyril’s shoes that were clicking with each step, it was Cyril’s feet. Or rather, Cyril’s lack of feet. From the waist down Cyril was not human – if in fact he could be termed human from the waist up – but his twisted legs were covered in coarse reddish gray hair and they ended with two black cloven hooves. The hooves played out a tip-tap with each step until Cyril eased himself up onto the stool next to Tim.

          Once he was comfortable, Cyril looked at him and began, “First off, the Boss wants me to extend his gratitude to you for your actions earlier this evening. You did us a solid when you whacked that Burke, and the Boss says to tell you ‘Thanks.’” Cyril extended his hand. The same overwhelming compulsion that made Tim turn into the roadhouse in the first place, and forced him to eat the sandwich, now made him take Cyril’s hand and shake. Cyril’s hand was hard and calloused and felt like dried leather. Tim had not noticed before, but Cyril’s fingernails were as black as his cloven hooves. Cyril’s hand was cold and hard and Tim was glad when the handshake ended. He was still unable to speak or control his own body, but his mind was running like mad and just a hair’s breadth from being on full “Tilt.”

          Cyril continued, “I know you’ve been wondering where you are and what’s going on, right?”

          Tim nodded. It was the first thing he had been able to do of his own accord since he had ordered the meal.

          “Well, trust me when I tell you that you really don’t want to know where you are. The metaphysics will just make your head hurt and if you saw what this place really looked like, you’d probably go mad. So I like to keep it like this: a nice, friendly rest stop along the highway. You know like that prophet Jeremiah – Man, he sure kept the Boss in a fine fiddle during his life, lemme tell ya! – ‘Oh that I had in the wilderness a lodging place for wayfaring men.’ Well, this,” Cyric gestured grandly, “Is my lodging place for the weary traveler. That, and the Boss lets me conduct a little business on the side here, a little somethin’-somethin’ to keep the boredom at bay.”

          Cyril slapped his palms against his hairy thighs and continued, “As I said earlier, you did us a favor by killing ol’ Burke. You know, his wife was going to leave him next week and take their kids back to her mother’s. Burke was going to get plastered and, because you and your wife were going to be in Dallas for the holidays, having nowhere else to turn, he was going to be watching television late at night. In a drunken stupor he would have stumbled across Jimmy Swaggart’s program and – curse him no end! – that modern-day Samson would have lead Burke to Je… Je…” Cyril struggled with his throat once again, then continued, “Well, Burke would have got saved and ended up completely out of our grasp. But now, thanks to you Tiny, ol’ Burkeipoo is just settling in downstairs somewhere in the first or second circle, I forget which one, anyway he’s ours for eternity.” Cyril leaned forward and took hold of his forearm, “Listen Timmy. As a token of our thanks, an expression of our gratitude, the Boss has authorized me to make you a deal.”

          A deal? Do you mean I’m not going to Hell for what I did?

          “Oh, no, Tiny Tim, you are so going to Hell. I mean, come on, you’re a murderer – which in itself gets you reserved seating in the seventh circle – not to mention you’re also a kinslayer and an oathbreaker.” Cyril reached over and pretended to knock on Tim’s forehead as if on a door, “Hello? Anyone home? Remember the vows you took when you married Donna? Love, honor, cherish and protect? Well, you shot that last one in the ass, didn’t you? Oh, and you didn’t know it, but Donna was six weeks pregnant, so you not only killed her, but you killed your unborn daughter, too.”

          Daughter! Oh, my God! I killed our baby! God forgive me! God forgive me!

          Cyril backhanded him angrily and once again Cyril’s eyes flashed fire and his yellowed teeth were once more fangs. “Now cut that out! I told you it’s too late for that!” Tim fell sideways from the force of the blow, but was unable to fall completely off the stool. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth and he wiped it off with the back of his hand. What’s a little more blood?

          Cyril composed himself once more and went on, “You were also planning on killing yourself, but that really wouldn’t have done much more to advance your place in Hell. Come on, when you’re freezing to death what’s the difference between thirty below and forty below, between friends? So, anyway, where were we? Oh, yeah, the Boss wants to return the favor you did him by allowing you to save your wife and daughter. Interested?”

          I can save them? How? I’ve already killed them…

          “Ain’tcha been payin’ attention, Timmy?” Cyril stopped and shook his head. “Sorry, I forgot that I had discarded that accent and persona. Sometimes being so many different people, having so many different personalities, it gets a tad bit confusing. I just don’t know how Shirley McClain does it day in and day out. Take my name, for example, ‘Cyril.’ That’s not my real name, you know. It’s just an Anglicanized version of ‘Sar’iel.’ But don’t ask me what it means, because as you’ve seen I kind of have trouble saying certain words and names. Got it?” Cyril looked at him for a response.

          Tim nodded. At least I can do that. I may not be able to talk or move but I’m not a total mannequin.

          “Oh, yeah, you are, Tiny Tim. You’re my little Pinocchio,” Cyril pinched Tim’s cheek like an adoring grandmother would a cute little baby, “Yes you are, aren’t you?”

          Cyril sat back on the stool and rested his elbows on the counter.

          “Are you interested in saving your wife and unborn child, Timmy?”

          Yes! Yes! Just tell me how!

          “Well, all you have to do is kill yourself. That is what you were planning on doing anyway, right?”

          Yes!

          Cyril reached under the counter’s edge and when his hand came back into view it was clutching a huge pistol. Cyril laid the hand cannon on the counter and pointed at it. “You’ll need this, Timmy. Now I know you think it’s a tiny bit of overkill: a Desert Eagle .44 Magnum with a twelve round extended clip filled with soft-nosed hollow points. But my motto is, ‘Go big or go home.’” Cyril laughed and slapped his thighs again. Once his laughter – which sounded more like the bleating of a billy goat than laughter – subsided he said, “Just take this little beauty here and walk through that door over yonder,” Cyril pointed at the front door of the roadhouse. “Beyond that door lies your bedroom, Timmy. When you walk out that door you’ll be walking right into the middle of that little hoedown you threw tonight. Get it? ‘Ho’ down?’” Cyril looked disappointed that Tim did not laugh. “Whatever. You just prance yourself into that bedroom and bust a cap into the back of your own head. You – the you from a few hours ago, that is – kill Burke and then before you – the old you – has a chance to backhand Donna, you – the now you – splatter your – old your – brains all over the wall in a pretty little miasma of red and gray. Then you – the now you – just fade to black and take up residence in your new home downstairs.” Cyril paused and massaged his forehead, “Great Scott, these temporal mechanics give me a headache!” After a moment he stopped kneading himself and said, “Bottom line is: Donna lives, the baby lives, Burke dodges Heaven and you get a place in the fifth circle with the wrathful dead rather than in the ninth circle – snuggled up right next to the Boss’ nethers – with the other treacherous souls and oathbreakers. Deal?” Cyril looked at him for confirmation and extended a hand.

          Yes, Yes! If I can undo what I did to Donna and our baby, then yes. Yes, it’s a deal!

          As soon as Tim agreed, he was free from the compulsion holding him. He stood up and stretched his arms over his head and then linked his fingers together, extended his arms forward until the knuckles cracked. The middle finger of his left hand was definitely broken, but he was no longer worried about it. He took Cyril’s hand and said aloud, “It’s a deal. My life and Burke’s life in exchange for Donna’s and the baby’s.”

          When they had released each other’s hands, Tim picked up the pistol, hefted it to familiarize himself with the balance and then tucked it behind his back into his belt. He walked across the floor to the door and turned back to Cyril, “Let’s get this mess over with.” He took hold of the door handle and walked through.

          *  *  *

 

          He felt like he was stepping through a waterfall of molasses, pressing his way through some sort of substance or liquid or semi-solid or whatever it was that connected “Cyril’s Roadhouse” to his own bedroom. He stumbled forward and caught his footing about three steps behind his other self, just as his other self said, “Hey, Babe, watchin’ El Dorado? I thought you hated those ol’ shoot ‘em…”

          Before his other self could begin the fatal beating of Riley Burke, Tim pulled the hand cannon from the small of his back, leveled it about a finger’s breadth behind his other self’s head and pulled the trigger three times. Overkill, Cyril old boy? What didja say? Go big or go home? Is this big enough for ya? The other Tim’s face exploded from the three bullets’ exits out of its center, spraying blood, bone chips and spongy pieces of brain all over the bed and all over Riley Burke who did not have enough time to justify seeing one Tim Little murder the other Tim Little.

          Before the blowback of blood and brains splattered the only living Tim’s face and body, Tim could hear Cyril screaming from somewhere far away, “Stop! That’s not right! You killed him too soon! Now they all three live! Noooooo…! We had a deal! No, Boss, don’t! It’s not my fault! He reneged! We had a deal! We had a dddddeeeeeeaaaaaalllll…” Cyril’s voice faded away, leaving only an echo of him screaming in torment.

          Tim felt something pulling at his being, tugging him backward through the door and back into wherever it was that the roadhouse existed. He tossed the Desert Eagle across his other self’s falling body, right at Riley Burke.

          “Catch,” Tim said as he started to disappear and, true to human instinct, Burke reached up and grabbed the pistol in both hands just as Donna came rushing out of the bathroom. She saw her husband’s body laying face down on the bed, gore everywhere, and her lover holding the murder weapon.

          Surely Burke didn’t think he could crawl into another man’s bed and there not be repercussions. Maybe he does deserve to die, but let his death be on the heads of a judge and jury, not on mine. Sumbitch’ll get what he deserves.

          Tim’s last thought, as he felt the flames licking his back, as he fell into the hell waiting for him, was, Come on, Cyril. Surely you didn’t think you could make a deal with an oathbreaker and expect me to keep my word.

          He smiled his last smile.

          Sumbitch got what he deserved…

Suicide Is Painless was originally published in

 

Threshold

 

          Copyright © 2010 by Curtis Leon Collier

 

          All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system without the express written permission of the copyright holder except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

           

          Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

           

          The digital version of this book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you are reading a digital version this book and did not purchase it, it was not purchased for your use only, or you have not purchased the print version of this book, then you should visit Lulu.com, Amazon.com or the author’s website and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

           

          ISBN: 978-0-9826669-0-6

 

           

 

          www.curtcollier.com