Manny Furious had decided he was going to “reunify himself with the source of all being.”

Manny Furious had just turned 35 and wanted to die.

Well, maybe “want” isn’t the exact, most accurate word there. He decided to die. He decided that 35 was as good an age as any to kick the bucket. It was all downhill from here, after all. How much longer could his strength, speed, stamina, reflexes, sex drive and non-grayed hair keep this up? Not much longer. He was getting old, and he was loathe to consider, much less experience, whatever it was Time had coming for him.

He weighed the options of either wiping his ass, jumping in the shower and continuing on with a day filled with meaningless, superfluous, existentially gratuitous chores and interactions imposed on him by a mean, dumb, greedy society, versus the cool, calming, sweet embrace of annihilation.

So, he chose annihilation. But carrying out suicide proved to be problematic. He lived in the town of Rio Frio, CO where the tallest building within a hundred mile radius was a 6-story dormitory on the college campus. People have a tendency to survive those kinds of falls only to live the rest of their lives eating dinner out of a straw and speaking through robots, and, really, this was the exact kind of fate he was hoping to avoid by killing himself. Plus, it seemed like one of those things that, even if he like drove to Denver (the nearest city) and jumped from a skyscraper, he’d just regret the whole thing halfway down, but by then it would obviously be too late and he’d spend the rest of the fall hating myself for choosing this for himself.

Slitting his wrist? Jesus. What kind of fucking nightmare would that be? Pain. Blood.  Just a generally sloppy situation. Can you imagine him sitting there, in a tub, bleeding for like 45 minutes or whatever? Jesus. Talk about having time to sit and reflect on and regret what he’d done.  He may as well throw myself in river full of starved piranhas or give myself a case of “the AIDS.” The other problem was he could never remember in which direction to make the cuts. Was it vertical or horizontal? Again, with his luck, he’d cut the wrong way and he’d survive the ordeal only to live a life sans whatever modicum of dignity he had left. People would look at him and see only a person who had attempted suicide and failed even at that.

Overdosing on pills seemed like a viable option. Swallow a handful of Quaaludes and go to sleep. Not much time or opportunity to regret anything with that method.  But how’d you get your hands on some Quaaludes? Did you simply go to the doctor and lie about your symptoms? What if he prescribed something else? Do they even prescribe Quaaludes anymore? He could’ve shot some smack, he supposed. That was easy to get your hands on, but that seemed somehow beneath him. Besides, puncturing himself with a needle was far too icky, and you wanted to kill yourself as easily as possible, with as little chance of ineptitude as possible. If nothing else, it was all just too much effort.

That left shooting himself. Simple, probably mostly painless as long as you don’t bumble that mostly easy task. It has been done before, though– people have shot themselves and survived. However, you can rectify any risk by using the biggest fucking gun you can find and sticking the proper end of the barrel in your mouth, aiming upwards toward your palate, where the bullet or buckshot will enter your brain with such force that the entire top two-thirds of your skull will evaporate into several pounds of gray mist instantaneously. Lord knows getting a gun is easy enough, and in rural Colorado, getting your hands on a shotgun the size of a dinosaur is as easy as getting someone to loan you a hammer.

That would just kill his mother, though. Literally. Losing both of her parents, two lovers–including Manny Furious’ father, Roland Furious– and a son as a capstone to such suffering, would kill her. She’d simply lose the Will To Live. She’d be lying on the couch watching some Lifetime movie about some chick from some well-to-do family in Alabama who, out of boredom and  some misplaced sense of self-pity caused by an emotionally remote father, turns to prostitution, gets pregnant and has the baby—a cute-but-obviously-helpless boy named Noah—taken from her by her charming but manipulating pimp, Merlin, who sells the baby on the black market to a rich, sterile couple from Boston who had all the best intentions but who also had no idea what kind of moral and spiritual abyss they actually had gotten themselves sucked into. Furious’s mother would be watching that shit and then she’d just simply run out of The Life Force. Then his karma would be compromised wholly. The negative energy of his suicide and its repercussions would permeate The Universe causing untold levels of grief and suffering which in turn would lead to even more pain and grief and since we’re all really “One” it’s all really Furious’s own pain and suffering caused by his own choices and so everything’s his fault because he murdered myself.

He didn’t want any of THAT on his karma.          

So he wasn’t going to kill himself, but what else was there?

“Well,” he thought to himself. “What now?”

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