Joel flicked the remnants of a Winston off the second-story balcony. He could hear the single mom below bitching in the corner of his mind: "My kids play down here; put your trash where it belongs." Fucking cunt. She should not have spawned those worthless grease stains.

As he rose and turned to go inside he drew a half-empty pack of smokes from his breast pocket and tapped out a fresh Winston. Lighting up as he strode through the open sliding glass door, he decided it was finally time. Time for resolution, time for redemption, time for satisfaction, time for liberation. Joel strode easily along the path through dirty laundry, beer cans, and old microwave food cartons to the closet by the front door. He had gone over the mission a thousand times in his head. He grabbed the Army rucksack, packed months ago, and the black case.

Exhilaration, anticipation, accumulation of preparation. Joel stopped at the door, looked back, and flicked the half-gone Winston onto a pile of trash. Giggling, he easily descended the steps and quickly crossed the lot, heading toward his beat-up AMC Matador. He didn't even break stride as he fired up a Winston, smiled around the cig, and flipped off Eugene the, 78-year-old war veteran that lived three doors down.

Joel flung the ruck into the great expanse of a back seat and carefully set the black case in the rear floorboard. Hopping in the captain's chair, he hit the start button; the key ignition quit working years ago. The 304 revved and left a one-tire peel-out mark as the yellow barge lurched into the street.

Heading to the core of town, to the clock tower overlooking the schoolyard, to the cliché that would be the final chapter of his pile-of-shit life, Joel envisioned the coming events. He was trying to adjust his jeans to free up room for his sprouting boner when out of nowhere a big yellow blur entered the left side of his vision. Then thunder rocked the car, immediately followed by strange silence. Joel felt nothing as he lay on the seat, watching blood pool.

The paper said he must have been heading to the gun club across town, where he had been a member for ten years, when the bus loaded with nuns suffered brake failure and smashed into his car, killing him on the scene.