A REVIEW OF GORE VIDAL'S BURR

 [Here's the second Goodreads review I'm reposting. I've been doing this too long, so I'm going to post and get out and do the stuff I really need to do for the day.]

Pop quiz, hotshot. When someone mentions Aaron Burr's name (if that ever happens), what is the first thing you think of? If you say anything other than he was the guy who killed Alexander Hamilton in a duel, you're lying to me or yourself, and believe me, you have no reason to impress me. Chances are, this is the only thing you know about him. It's the only thing taught about him in school.

But maybe you had a more progressive teacher, and you also knew he was the third vice-president in US history. Interesting fact: I think he's the only VP in history to have been accused of murder by two states while still in office. (NJ dropped the charge because while Hamilton was shot there, he died in NY. NY just dropped the charges. Burr never entered a courtroom for that one.)

You probably don't know that the 12th Amendment was written because of the election of 1800, because of the situation between Burr and Thomas Jefferson. You probably don't know that Burr was tried for treason several times for the same crime. We call that Double Jeopardy now. It's part of the 15th Amendment, so they didn't have that law at the time.

Here's the thing: Aaron Burr got a raw deal. And I believe that Hamilton had it coming. I know, I can see the look on your face and hear the groan you just uttered. But hear me out.

First of all, this is a novel of historical fiction. It's the first of Vidal's Narratives of the Empire. While, yes, this is a work of fiction, Vidal makes a point of being as accurate as possible. Any changes he made to what we know of history, he mentions them in the afterword. Obviously the dialogue can't be historically accurate in most cases. Whenever he could, he used actual quotes. Whenever he couldn't, he tried to be as truthful to the characters and what they would have said as possible.

But you can't just take his word, can you? I mean, I believe him, but it would be irresponsible for me to just accept this as a fact. So I fact-checked everything. It took me two hours, and I'd say, dialogue aside, he's 99% accurate.

Ever have a problem with a bank? I have had several. I will curse US Bank until the day I die. My brother owed them a considerable amount of money, so they took it from my account. And I had no recourse. I made angry phone calls. I wrote angry letters and emails. But they're a major corporation, and I'm a nobody. A nobody who suddenly had no money and therefore couldn't hire a lawyer. I'm with PNC now, and I had a couple of problems with them. They even resolved two of the three of them in my favor. My point is, I'll bet almost all of you, at some point in your life, have had a problem with banks. You can thank Alexander Hamilton for that. When the US still had its training wheels on, quite a few people wanted to make sure that a bank was never created on American soil. They lost that argument, and Hamilton not only created the first bank, he created our monetary system. So yeah, I guess he should be on one of the paper bills. I'd put him on the three dollar bill and put Burr on the ten.

Hamilton had a monopoly on banks at the time. We didn't have anti-trust laws back then and wouldn't have them until Theodore Roosevelt came to office at the beginning of the 20th Century. Burr, out of spite I believe, created his own bank to compete, which flabbergasted and angered Hamilton. It's weird because they actually used to be friends. They had a lot in common. Both were orphaned and were war heroes in the Revolution. (Unlike, say, Jefferson, who rather than fight the red coats fled and hid away.)

I used to think that Jefferson was the most interesting of the Founding Fathers. Flawed, certainly, but interesting. And as I read more of Vidal's account, I found myself liking him less and less and less. He wasn't just two-faced. He had a face for every occasion, kind of like the Queen in Return to Oz. He freely lied and manipulated his way through his political career. He betrayed a lot of people, and yet he came out on top in our history. The only blemish anyone talks about now is that he, the man who wrote "all men are created equal," owned slaves, didn't think women were really people and wanted to make sure only landowners voted in elections. And he impregnated at least one of his slaves.

So could all of this be true? I fact-checked. Like, for real fact-checked. I'm not a lazy researcher. I require three independent accounts before I can believe something as an historical fact. In this case, I got eight. Nine if you count Wikipedia. I don't, but I did check. Wikipedia is useful as a launching pad. What you read there might not be true and often needs citation, but for the things that *do* have citation, you can find them through the bibliography at the bottom of the page that no one looks at. So is this the way Jefferson was? Yes. I fully believe that he was a thorough scumbag.

But I'm getting off topic. Because now I believe that Aaron Burr is the most interesting of the Founding Fathers. He's unlike any of the others, and I actually find myself identifying with him a lot. Let's look at some facts that come from both the book and my eight sources. Burr, unlike any of the others (with the possible exception of Jefferson, but there is no definite proof of it), was an atheist. Yet he studied to be a minister for a brief period of time, mostly, I think, to please his surrogate father, who was a Calvinist minister. He had incredible wit and charm. Take a look at all of the paintings of the Fathers. Most of them are grim and depressing. Look at Burr's portraits, and you will see someone with light in his eyes and a dancing mischief. His sense of humor often got him in trouble, and he never cared about it. He genuinely didn't care what others thought of him. Do you know how rare that is in a politician? And politician he was. From senator to the VP, he worked the system he tried to create with the others. Too bad everyone else hated and feared him except maybe for Madison. That's what the book says. I only found one source that kinda-sorta confirmed it. But one source is not three. Burr, oddly, really felt no affinity to any political party and often worked for both the Republicans and the Federalists (and the Whigs, if you can believe that). He often created scandal with his taste for the fairer sex, whether he went to brothels or visited society women when their husbands were away. He had a few legitimate children, but there were a lot more bastards he fathered. Vidal tries to suggest that Burr fathered Martin Van Buren (who Burr delightfully calls Matty Van), but I couldn't find any confirmation of that. For the time Burr was very progressive. He was an Abolitionist when that was a vile word no gentleman would ever use. He believed women had the right to an education, and he ensured that not only did his daughter Theodosia get the finest education possible, he also funded the education of stepdaughters and other girls he adopted. There is a story, and I found three sources, that says that a neighbor of his couldn't afford to send her two children to school. Burr, who was often broke and lost money almost as quickly as he made it, pawned his pocket watch for twenty bucks and gave it to his neighbor. That was back when twenty bucks meant something. Burr also advocated for everyone to have the right to vote, not just white men who owned land. He was a thorn in Jefferson's side, and he never trusted Burr, not even as his VP.

Did you know that Burr was almost our third president instead of Jefferson? They tied when the electoral votes were counted, and 35 ballots later, a winner was declared. By that, I mean that the states voted, in total 36 times to figure out who the winner was. Back then, the loser was always the VP. Hence the 12th Amendment that was created shortly thereafter. Burr, a gentleman by the definition of the day, made a deal with Jefferson. Burr wanted the presidency after Jefferson had his go. If Jefferson made that happen, Burr would deliver the electoral votes from New York, which were vital for Jefferson, whom the New Yorkers didn't like. Even still, they tied 36 times. It came down to one vote. ONE! Bayard of Delaware was the only vote for his state. He was a friend of Burr's, and because Burr made a deal with Jefferson, he convinced Bayard to vote for Jefferson instead. Because of Burr's sense of honor, Jefferson thoroughly betrayed him when it came to what Burr had asked.

Burr never trusted Jefferson again. And Jefferson was still not finished betraying Burr. Burr had an idea to take over Mexico to create a government much better than the BS that the US was already becoming. At the time, Mexico was still a Spanish property, so that would entail declaring war on Spain, which Jefferson actually wanted. But when he heard of Burr's plan, he made it look like Burr was going to separate land bought in the Louisiana Purchase from the union by taking control of New Orleans, which never entered Burr's head. There's a dispute over how many men Burr had during the so-called Burr Conspiracy. He had somewhere between 30 and 80 men. Do you think he could have taken a city with such a paltry army? I kind of think Mexico was a pipe dream of his, but he was accused of treason. A lot. And he was captured. A lot. And he was tried for treason. A lot. And he was found not guilty. A lot. Each and every time, in fact, much to Jefferson's pathological hatred of Burr. But Burr had enough. He also had a lot of creditors after him. So he lived in Europe for a while before coming home under an assumed name. Here's the funny thing, though. Near the end of his days, a group of Americans, mostly from TN, under the leadership of Davy Crockett tried to annex Mexico themselves. They failed miserably, and they all died at the Alamo, which is a story we're taught in school was the heroic battle of white Americans against the evil Mexicans. What it really was, was an attempt to steal Mexican land and impose slavery upon it. Mexicans were opposed to having their land stolen, and they were opposed to slavery. So who are the real heroes of the Alamo? (Also, I'm not planning on visiting Texas at any point in my life. I'd rather not be strung up for speaking ill of Davy Crockett and company.) So in essence, Burr was tried for treason several times for the act (the intended one, not the BS one) that Davy Crockett and his Tennesseans were declared heroes for. History can have one hell of a sense of humor sometimes. 

Let's get back to Hamilton. Because of his growing enmity with Burr, he talked a lot of smack behind Burr's back. His mouth was so loud that word eventually got back to Burr. A friend had written a letter in cypher to Burr describing what Hamilton said about him. There were two things. One is confirmed and 100% certain. To paraphrase, Hamilton said Burr was a dangerous man and had to be kept from the reigns of government. That's pretty bad, but it's not bad enough to start a duel. In fact, Burr was used to being slandered, so he didn't really care. And then there is the second thing that Hamilton said, and no one quite knows what it was (or, at least, I couldn't find any reliable source for it). Everyone agrees on one thing: the word to describe it was "despicable." And that was the reason Burr began a new correspondence with Hamilton, trying to get to the bottom of this and to get an apology. Vidal has a theory, and knowing what I do of humanity, I think he might be right. And if this was indeed what Hamilton said, I don't blame Burr for killing him for a second. We'll get back to that.

The idea of the book is that a young reporter, Charlie Schuyler (who didn't exist in real life, as noted in the afterword), wants to write a biography of the Colonel, as he calls Burr. His editor wants him to do it in order to prove that presidential hopeful Matty Van was Burr's bastard son. While Charlie does want to know, he doesn't want to push Burr because, well, he really likes him. His spirit is catchy, and his charm and wit are spot on. A lot of people called Burr Satanic because of his nature and demeanor. I really like that.

I said on Twitter that if they ever made this into a movie, I would require James Spader to play Burr. Watch Spader on The Blacklist. Pay attention to his mannerisms and to the way he says things when he's excited or amused or even thrilled. Then read some of Aaron Burr's dialogue in this book. You'll see what I mean.

There's one thing I wish I didn't know going in. It's a spoiler, so I won't mention it. I read two of the Empire books before this one and found out about this. I didn't know that a certain character didn't know something. Something that is the final line in this novel.

I need to bring this to a close. I've spent the last two hours writing Goodreads reviews of three books, and that's just too much. Besides, I need to pick up my meds and get some comic books. And I have a lot more reading to do. So I'm going to leave you with this.

Being the scumbag that Hamilton was, first creating the banks that would eventually suck our country dry, and then betraying friendships, and then slandering a man who was so thick skinned that slander never hurt him.

Except this once. This once, Hamilton said something so vile that Burr had to kill him. All the reasons stated above are true and reason enough to kill Hamilton. But what I'm about to say next, I can't verify. If Vidal is correct, and I wish he were alive still so I could send him a letter or a Tweet or something, then Burr was absolutely justified.

What was the "despicable" thing that Hamilton said?

He said that Aaron Burr and his, Burr's, daughter were lovers.

A REVIEW OF CHUCK PALANIUK'S CONSIDER THIS

 [I ordinarily don't repost my Goodreads reviews, but I think this one would interest a great deal of people. And so I'm not just doing this once today, I will do so again shortly. I have two more reviews to write this morning before I head out into the world for my meds and comic books. Here's the first one.]

I bought this expecting an autobiography. And it is, indeed, that. It is also an excellent book on writing for people who are just starting out. I'd put it right up there with Tom Piccirilli's Welcome to Hell. One problem: he's a minimalist, and his writing advice is mostly for writers who want to be minimalists. I believe less is better, and sometimes it's the things that are left unsaid during the process that turn out to be the most important. But I'm not a minimalist. Regardless, there is some great advice for beginners in here. "What's your gun?" is a great question for struggling writers to think about. "Did you put a clock in?" is another. Great stuff.

What I really enjoyed, though, are the parts that most authors who do books on writing, from Stephen King to Richard Laymon, don't tell you about the profession. Like, taking your author photo, for example. Because it is kind of important for readers to know what you look like. Personally, and I think Palahniuk would agree with me, the writer should be invisible. You should never know you're actually reading a book, contrary to all logical sense. The moment the author is discovered, suspension of disbelief is gone. But people care. They want to see the monster who wrote Diary and Lullaby. And Dong of Frankenstein, for that matter, I guess. (It should be noted that his author photo for this book shows him with a shaved head and a face covered in tattoos. I really hoped he'd gotten those tattoos for real. He's a weird dude, and I wouldn't put it past him. Alas, in the book he said they were temporary tats. Ah well.) My favorites are the postcards from the tour sections. The white mice story is flat out insane, and what the perpetrators said on their protest signs is absolutely mortifying. I would not have taken that as well as Palahniuk did. And I love his story about the guy who worked at the sex shop with the Polaroids.

Confession time. I've met Palahniuk twice. Once in Skokie as he was doing his Haunted tour. The second was in Naperville when he said he was on tour for his new collection of short stories, but he was really there to promote issue one of Fight Club 2. (Irvine Welsh was also there and did a reading.) That second experience was amazing. Palahniuk threw bags of candy into the crowd, and one of them nailed me in the stomach and nearly bowled me over. And the autographed limbs he discusses in this book? I got one of those, too. It bounced off the hand of a guy two rows in front of me, and I snatched it as it rebounded back to me. Incidentally, Palahniuk has one of the most elaborate autographs I've ever seen, right up there with Stephen King. As compared to, say, Brian Azzarello who signs with a legible A followed by a straight line that may end in an O. Possibly.

That was an amazing experience. I still have my beachball somewhere. But that first time bordered on profound. There, as he does in the book, he talks about how the last guy in line is a wild card. You never know what they're going to say. The Polaroid guy, for example, was the last guy in line. Palahniuk also told us that people see him as a confessor because if he could write a story like "Guts," then he's not going to judge you for anything.

I was the last guy in line for the Skokie event. I had time to read the entirety of Survivor, and I still had a lot of time before I got to meet the man himself. Knowing that I was the last guy in line, I decided I had to say something to him. Something he'd never heard before. But what? Nothing could beat the Polaroid guy, right? But I had that time, and I did remember something about a book signing I'd attended a couple of years previous.

So I got up to the man himself, who stood at a lectern where he signed books. I had all of them that were out at the time (except Choke, which I couldn't find in my collection for some reason). I introduced myself and as he started signing that first book (Fight Club, I think), I told him that I believed it was my solemn duty, as the last guy in line, to confess something to him.

I asked him, "Have you ever seen the Kevin Smith film, Mallrats?"

He said he hasn't.

"Have you at least heard of the concept of stinkpalming?"

I saw a change come over his face. While he still signed, he didn't look me in the eye. He kept looking down like he was getting ready to take mental notes.

"I once went to a signing at a Borders, and it was Oliver North promoting his new fictional war book. I don't like him. If he'd only rolled on Mr. I-Don't-Recall, I think our country would have been in a better place. So at first I had no interest in meeting him. But then I realized that I could stinkpalm him."

If you're unfamiliar, stinkpalming is when you put your right hand in your butt on a hot sweaty day and just let the smell bury itself into your flesh. Then you shake the hand of your enemy, and it will sink into his skin, too. And it doesn't wash off for days. For days, his hand will smell like your butt. Sure, yours will, too, but as Brody said, "It's a small price for the smiting of an enemy." So I told Palahniuk that's what I did to Ollie North.

Then, pausing his pen over the last book in the pile, Haunted, he asked me, in the mildest possible voice I have ever heard, "You didn't stinkpalm me, did you?"

I assured him that I liked him a lot, and I would never do that to him. An almost imperceptible relief came over his face as he signed the last book and rubber stamped it. The stamp proclaimed that this was his Shit and Roses Tour.

I thanked him and left and years later read this book. I'm kinda disappointed I didn't make the cut. Ah well. This long and rambling review is just to advise you that if you were my student, I would have you read this book and consider this.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #316: WHAT CHRISTMAS MEANS TO ME

I'm a lifelong atheist. More or less. I went on searches for religion over the course of my life (and when I was 12 I got my first blowjob out of it, long story), but even though I thought I found it a few times, I was wrong. Even as a child, I did not believe in God. Maybe it's because I was never taught to. I never really believed in Santa, either. I had my suspicions that it was a lie to get me to just go to fucking sleep, or Santa will never come you little brat. (Mom called me a brat a lot, and I deserved it half the time.) In fact, there is one thing us atheists are asked all the time: if you have no fear of punishment in the afterlife, why be good? I'll answer that by the end of this. Promise. And if you're not an atheist, you might not like what I have to say.

I feel I should also mention that I'm not just talking about the Christian God(s). I'm talking about all gods. I'd sooner believe in Zeus than this crazy shit that people are babbling about now, and Zeus is fucking stupid.

Santa made just as much sense to me at that age that Jesus did. Meaning, NONE. The true meaning of Christmas keeps getting shoved down my throat every fucking year. It's the birth of Jesus and so on et cetera go fuck yourself if you don't believe in Jesus. That's my experience. Yours probably varies.

When I was a kid, I loved holidays. I threw myself into every one of them, even Arbor Day. Now? I don't give a flying fuck at a rolling, still or flying doughnut. I'm a horror author who doesn't give two tugs of a dead dog's cock about Halloween. I don't care about any of them.

But I remember when I was a kid, and after we all opened presents on Christmas Day (this was before I met the person who would abuse me for a good portion of my childhood), I remember that Gramps took out the projector and showed us the ghosts of Christmas Past. I learned how to thread the film through, and we'd watch as my mom and my aunt would, as children, open their presents. Gramps looked like Hunter S. Thompson. Grandma had horn-rimmed glasses and her hair in curlers. I saw the very same tree and decorations that we still used when I was a kid in those films. And then we'd watch past films of us opening presents. We also had these great cartoons on literal film. We didn't get sound, but when you're watching Tom and Jerry or the Three Stooges or even Puss'n'Boots, you didn't need it.

There was this one year that I got a tank that fired a missile that was supposed to be harmless if a kid got hit with it. But a tree ornament? It shattered the fucker. I was guilt ridden about that, not because I expected punishment. I did. But because that was a decoration that was gone forever because I was a stupid fucking kid.

What we never did when I was a kid was go to church. Ever. My dad's side of the family was very religious (read: Catholic), but my mom's side? Nope. We barely set foot in church for weddings and funerals. Certainly not for a fucking Christmas mass. We were too busy with real people stuff.

And today I remain an atheist. And like I said, holidays don't mean anything to me anymore.

But in my vicinity, there is a child in my family. Last year, I was so broke I got no presents for anyone . . . except this kid. Because I know that when you're a child Christmas means everything to you.

But Christmas does mean something to me, regardless of all the things I just said. Fuck the religious side of it. The true meaning of Christmas has nothing to do with the birth of Christ, as far as I'm concerned. If you doubt that, you can talk with some Druids about . . . fuck it. Never mind. I don't want to start a holy war. I don't want to hurt anyone. I don't want any arguments from anyone about anything on this topic. So if you have an opinion, keep it to yourself.

And fuck Santa. He was created by a corporation so that . . . never mind that, either. Fuck that. I'm not here to etc.

And I'm not too pleased with the capitalist side of this so-called holiday. But considering my rants about Black Friday, you should not be surprised.

What does Christmas mean to me? Not much, to be fair. But it does have meaning. For me, it's a time of giving. When I was a kid, unbridled greed got the better of me, but now? I don't care if I get a single Christmas gift. I just like giving. I don't even wait to see the look of happiness on anyone's face. I gave, and that's enough for me. Because I'm kind of a cold person. People thanking me makes me feel weird, so I just ignore it.

I understand that sometimes you just can't give. Like last year for me? I couldn't give. So I didn't. But if you can, I'd take the advice that Craig Ferguson offers in his book BETWEEN THE BRIDGE AND THE RIVER: "Help others." A weird thing to come from a late night host on regular TV, right? But I'll be damned if that hasn't stuck with me. It's one of my top five favorite books of all time. Help others. Just do it. Not for you. If you think it'll get you into Heaven, you're doing it for the wrong reason.

So. Why be good if I have no fear of punishment in the afterlife? First, I can't claim to be always good. I'm selfish a lot of the time, and I've hurt a lot of people in my life, but I've tried to be good. Not to earn Brownie points with the Great Whatever. But if you're being good because you're afraid of getting a red pitchfork up your ass in the fiery depths of Hell, then you aren't really good. You're acting in self interest.

We're all in this together. It sucks. We don't like each other most of the time. But WE ARE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER. Why make life miserable when you can help ease someone else's suffering? That's why I try to be good. This is all we have. When you die, you're dead. That sucks, but we do have this time. Behave (more or less). Be good (if you can). Help others. Merry Christmas.

BOOKS IN STOCK

 What in the unholy fuck?! I have my own books in stock! This hasn't happened since I sold the last of them at the last Printers Row book fair, and that was back in summer of 2019. So yeah, I have my own books again. Not all of them. Some have sadly gone out of print. But now you can order directly from me, if your heart desires. I'll sign 'em however you want. Well, more or less. Hell, I'll sign 'em Dinah Shore if that'll make you happy. (With apologies to Jello Biafra on that one. And Dinah Shore, probably.) So here's what I have. $12 for one book. $10 each for two books. If you get three or more, it's still ten bucks a book, but I'll throw in some kind of surprise. It'll be worth it, I think. I hope. I just don't know what it is yet. Maybe a signed manuscript of a short story? I'll figure it out. You'll like it. So! Here's the list. Let me know what you want. First come, first serve. (Shipping is included in the prices.)

--POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS 2 copies

--AND JESUS CAME BACK 2 copies

--BLOOD 4 copies

--TALES OF UNSPEAKABLE TASTE 19 copies

And hey! I still have a few copies of SHIT POEMS around here somewhere. Buy ANYTHING directly from me, and I'll throw in a copy. Quantities are limited. Uh . . . fuck it. If you just want to flat out buy SHIT POEMS, I'll sell it for seven bucks. That might seem a bit steep for a 'zine of poetry about morning wood, the forever wipe, pissing with fellow creators and Nic Cage movies, but there are only 30 copies in the world.

You can reach me at editor@talesofquestionabletaste.com. Or you can PayPal me at roadmapofpain@yahoo.com. Be sure to include your address and how you'd like me to sign the books. As always, thank you for your attention, and I hope 2021 brings us a lot more fun and a lot less plague.

2020 by John Bruni

 [Before I start, this is a sequel to my story, 2016. It's not important that you read that one, but you'd be a whole lot cooler if you did. There is one amendment I'd make before 2016 takes over. In the intro, I state a lot of bad things that happened in that year. I'm glad to say that my girlfriend at the time is no longer confined to her bed, that her brain damage turned out to be minimal. We don't speak to each other anymore, but I'm glad that she's not bad in that way anymore.]

It was the last of the heroin. I used it sparingly to make it last and so I didn’t get addicted. I lived in the wilderness, and while I knew how to get more, I was loath to leave my self-imposed hermitage. The heroin eased the pain in my crippled left leg. Tough times ahead. Indeed. 

I took the plunger in my teeth and pulled back, filling the “insulin needle” I got at Walgreen’s with dark brown fluid. A nice potent shot. I tied off my arm with Velcro—much better than a rubber strip or a shoe lace—and pumped my fist. Now came the hard part. Even before I started this habit, my veins were shot. I’d been in the hospital many times, and IV’s had all but destroyed my veins. Thankfully I had more on the back of my arm. I pulled my hand to my shoulder as hard as I could. I saw a vein pop up, juicy and ready to be pierced. I used the suck at this—I had to stick it in and dig around until I found what I needed—but practice made perfect. I eased the needle in, and I barely felt it. I pulled the plunger back until I saw blood. 

Then I rammed it home and yanked the Velcro away as quickly as I could. The rush came seconds later. My jaw dropped, and the pain faded away. In a buzz I was barely aware of myself removing the needle and setting it aside. 

Ever since I killed 2016 the world’s temporal experience has been, well, odd. They said that the Titanic was seen leaving Ireland. A platoon of Nazis stormed Paris. Vikings raided England. Pirates took a millionaire’s yacht in the Caribbean. I myself saw a caveman attacking an elephant at the Brookfield Zoo. And, God help me, CNN reported a T-rex tearing the White House apart. 

I’ve always wanted to be a hermit, but I actually became one out of necessity. I had to escape the Time Crazy world. I lived at the tippy-top of a very rough mountain. It would take dedication to find me. 

The drawback to heroin is it makes you useless. You can’t do anything productive. But it feels very good. The temptation is usually to sleep. Don’t. It’s a waste of a good—no, the best—drug. Never get greedy. That’s what makes an addict. Respect the drug. 

Morphine is good. Dilaudid is better. Fentanyl has the best rush, but it’s over in seconds. With heroin the rush lasts and lasts and lasts. 

The front door burst open, letting thick snowflakes into my living room. A man with a thick coat and a gun stumbled in, the wind a beast at his back. He looked left and right, his eyes settling on me. 

“John Bruni?” he asked. 

I nodded. “Who are you?” 

“My name is 2020. You killed my great-great-grandfather. Prepare to die!” 

We stared at each other for a moment, and I broke into laughter. 

“Why do you laugh at me?!” 2020 shouted. 

“That was the best Inigo Montoya speech ever,” I said. I didn’t mention how I missed the perfect opportunity to do the same thing with his great-great grandfather. 

2020 stared at me, bewildered. “You don’t fear me?” 

I grunted a laugh. “I’ve lost everything. I fear nothing. Do your worst. I won’t even stop you.” 

Again, 2020 remained silent. He looked like a dog trying to figure out a math problem. 

“What?” I said. “You think I’m living here in the wilderness because I like it?” Well, I did, actually. 

“You killed 2016.” 

“Only because 2016 killed my dad first. All I wanted was to have my dad back. If only for one fucking minute. Lacking that, I killed the bastard who took his life.” 

“You disrupted the natural flow of time. You don’t get to kill a year and live!” 2020 said. 

“Oh yeah? Then why didn’t 2017 come for me? Why did it take a runt like you to come after me?” 

“Runt?! How dare you call me a runt!” 

“I have another name for you if you like. Fair warning, though. It does rhyme with runt.” 

2020 laughed, and it sounded genuine. “I get it now. You’re provoking me so I’ll give you a swift death.” 

Not really, but I stayed silent. Let him think what he wanted to think. 

Then I saw something. “You’re bleeding.” 

“Huh?” 2020 asked. 

I pointed to the crimson path down his pants. He looked, then covered it with his coat. “It’s nothing.” 

“I got bandages.” 

2020 pointed the gun at me again. “I don’t think so. Remember why I’m here?” 

“No need to lose any sense of civility. Come on. Sit down. I’ll get you fixed up. Then you can kill me and be on your merry way.” 

2020 considered, then sat in an easy chair. I got him some whiskey and went off to get the first aid kit in the bathroom. 

“Nothing funny!” he cried out. “Come back with a gun, and you’re dead!” 

I came back with the kit held aloft. “Nothing funny.” 

2020 opened his coat and lifted both a sweater and a shirt. I saw tiny circles all over his stomach. Closer examination revealed these to be bites. I almost laughed. 

“Didn’t think you had piranha in your moat,” 2020 said. “Or a moat, for that matter.” 

He took a healthy slug from the whiskey, and I went to work. No stitches needed, thankfully, but a lot of disinfectant and medical tape went into his injuries. When I finished, he relaxed, dropping his shirt and sweater. He took more whiskey. 

“This is good,” he said. “Got any pills for pain?” 

“I just finished the last of the heroin. Sorry.” 

“Ah.” He waved a dismissive hand. “This should do.” Another drink of whiskey. He refilled his own cup. 

I still rode the midnight gloom. Past experience shows that heroin and whiskey made for a bad tummy ache. I simply sat and watched my quarry. He looked weak and tipsy. Not good for a killing mood. 

“You still want to kill me?” I asked. 

2020 glanced at the gun in his hand. Shrugged. “Yeah. I’m just going to need a minute.” 

“Take your time.” Settling back. All the more to enjoy the heroin. If he was going to kill me, I hoped he wouldn’t wait until I was sober again. 

2020 took another bite from the whiskey. He grimaced, and his eyes turned to me, dull and already bloodshot. “What the fuck do you do out here in the middle of nowhere?” 

“Not much,” I said. “Sometimes I write, but I gave up that lifestyle. I’m not a writer anymore. It’s just too . . . too much. I get good wifi, though. Prime and Netflix is how I spend most of my days. That and the whiskey and smack.” 

2020 grunted. “That’s fucking pathetic.” 

“So’s the fucking world,” I said. 

“You have no one to blame but yourself. You killed 2016! You had to know that there would be repercussions.” 

“I wasn’t thinking at the time,” I said. “I was running on high octane revenge. As you can imagine, my tank is on empty. Has been for a while now.” 

2020 drank again. I watched him carefully, hoping to catch some indication that he could connect the dots I was showing him. Judging from the dull sheen over his eyes, he couldn’t. 

“You think you’re special,” he said. 

“Nope. Not really. Would I be a hermit if that were the case?” 

“No, you think you’re special. What makes you think that you should have killed an entire year? And don’t give me that shit about your dad. Years kill people. That’s what we do. We also bring life to others. It evens out.” 

“I didn’t care,” I said. “2016 had it coming.” 

2020 sneered. “You’re nobody. You’re nothing.” 

“And yet I killed your great-great-whatsis,” I said. 

He turned the gun on me and fired. I jumped, surprised, but the bullet missed me by the proverbial mile. It plowed into the wall next to me. 

“Whoops,” 2020 said. He laughed, taking another drink. 

“Maybe you should take a nap,” I said. “You’re a bit rough around the edges.” I couldn’t help but think that he should have approached from the west instead of the east. If he’d done so, he would have been devoured by the sharks I keep on that side of the moat, and I wouldn’t be stuck in this mess. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” 2020’s grin was lopsided, and I was sure that he wouldn’t be able to stand up straight, much less shoot me.  “I wanna watch you squirm.” He fired again, and I involuntarily flinched, even though I expected it. The bullet went wild, and I later found it in my bathroom. 

But then his aim straightened, and he aimed the gun at my stomach. Ever have a gun pulled on you?  I have. In high school. I’d gone over to a friend’s place for a math project, and he showed me his rifle. He showed me that the weapon was not loaded . . . and then he aimed it at my torso, grinning wildly. Even though I knew for a fact that gun was empty, I still felt my insides oozing unnaturally against each other. 

So you can imagine how I felt when 2020 aimed a loaded gun at me. 

“Gettin’ nervous?” he asked. 

“You ever kill anyone?” I asked. 

2020 took another drink of whiskey. “Nah. Not really, I mean.” 

“It’s a hell of a thing, killing a man,” I said. “Taking away all he has, all he’s ever gonna have.” 

2020 laughed. “Yeah, I saw Unforgiven, too.” 

Drats. “Ah, fuck it then. What are you waiting for?” 

2020 pulled the trigger. This time I did not flinch, but I felt the bullet rip into my guts. I looked down to see a hole in my stomach already spouting blood. I lifted my shirt and saw my intestines through the bullet hole. I reached behind me and felt the exit wound, which was a lot bigger. Blood saturated the chair. 

2020 giggled. “I did it. I killed the year-killer.” 

I thought about my ruptured organs leaking poison into my body and knew that he was right. I was as good as dead. But I still had coherent thoughts. I still had that going for me, if nothing else. 

“What do you think are the odds that you’re going to get medical help all the way up here? At the top of the mountain and far away from civilization?” 

“Not good,” I croaked. 

“So I’m going to leave you here to suffer until your body finally dies on you. How do you like that?” 

It sucked, but I kept my mouth shut. I had a finite amount of breaths to take now, and I didn’t want to waste a single one. 

2020 wrapped his coat around himself. He grimaced slightly at the pain from his piranha bites, but he took another drink from the bottle, and it seemed to settle him down. He then went to the door and yanked it open. Giant flakes of snow washed over the floor, and he squinted into the wind. “So long, asshole. I hope you live a good long time before you die from that gunshot.” Grinning, he stepped outside. 

I yanked off my shirt and ripped it in two. The first I put in the entry wound, the second at the exit. I picked up a dirty shirt off the floor and tied it around my bulk, hoping it would buy me enough time. I probably wouldn’t have made it if I wasn’t wearing my leg brace. But I stood despite the dizziness and staggered to the door. The icy wind cut into my eyes, making them water so badly that I almost turned back. Then I saw 2020 looking down the mountain, trying to judge the best path to take. He turned to the west and started on his way down. 

I pushed myself as hard as I could, and I could feel myself stumbling against the ice and rocks. I made it around to the other side of the cabin. Just beyond 2020 I could see the moat. Just where I wanted him. Using the last of my strength, I launched myself at him, meaning to check him in the back of the head. My aim was off, and I got him in the small of the back instead. 

He gave a shocked yelp as he fell forwards and down the mountain. I watched his body flail on the way down, trying to grab anything that would stop his descent. Then he took a ten-foot drop and landed on his ass. I heard him scream and could only assume that he’d broken his tail bone. I knew what that was like. It happened to me twice. I felt no sympathy for him. 

He still rolled and bounced until he hit the lip of the moat, which sent him sailing over half of it until he splashed down into the murky waters. He managed to tread water pretty well, though. 

“You think you can kill me?!” 2020 roared. “You did jack shit, Bruni! Jack fucking shit!” 

And then the first shark fin surfaced. And then a second. And a third. 

“What the fuck?!” 2020 yelled. “This is bullshit. Sharks need saltwater!” 

I wanted to tell him that I’d had the saltwater imported for the express purpose of getting sharks for my moat, but my throat felt clogged, and I gagged up maybe a pint of blood. I propped myself up so I could watch. 

I almost missed it. One of the fins ducked down, and suddenly 2020 wasn’t there anymore. The moat turned crimson, and 2020 splashed back to the surface. “Help!” he screamed. “Don’t do this to me!” 

I chuckled, which was about all I could do at this point. The other two fins ducked down, and 2020 vanished yet again. This time, when he broke the surface again, it was only his decapitated head. And then one of the sharks gobbled that down, too. 

I fell onto my back, satisfied that if I was going to die here, at least 2020 got what he deserved. I remembered that I had a secret stash of Vicodin behind the medicine cabinet over my bathroom sink. My mouth watered, thinking of the ten pills I had in there. I spat, and it wasn’t saliva. 

I turned my head. My house seemed so far away. I tried to stand, but lightheadedness shoved me back down to the ground. I let my head fall back. I felt so tired. All I wanted to do was rest. 

Yes. Rest. 

I closed my eyes, not knowing if I would ever open them again.