Unlucky Number 10 and The Call by Brian Hesse (beginner reading books for adults .txt) 📕

day. Well, I don’t remember too many sunny days since my, shall we say, rebirth? Yea, that is exactly what it was, a birth. Just as a new life is forced from the warm moist comfort of the womb and painfully pushed into the blinding hot light of what we call the civilized world, I too, in my middle-aged years, have experienced the pain of rebirth. However, my rebirth is a realization that none of us are who we see when staring into the mirror. With our misguided self-righteous belief in our mastery of the natural world and our disgusting ignorance of the impending death that slowly stalks us every unfulfilling and pointless second of the day. Oh, yes let us not forget about time. The incessant ticking of the clock signaling nothing more than a painful and lonely demise when we look into the face of beautiful death, and realize that our lives meant nothing at all.  We live in houses too expensive for our actual net worth, with spouses we grow tired of  seeing. We have children who never live up to our fantastical expectations, and jobs that once held so much promise, now stagnant and no longer requiring our fake expertise. Yes, this is our life from the time we leave the safety of our Mother’s womb until the day everything we know slowly fades from vision, like the flame of the candle that flickers ever so faster until nothing but darkness…...nothingness. 

Excuse my morbid tirade and dramatic prose, but this is how one feels when diagnosed with terminal cancer. I remember the day my troubles began. It was autumn of last year and I was driving to my office to put the finishing touches on a few policies I managed to sucker some frightened and insecure people into buying. My profession is not important but I am sure you are smart enough to guess that I sell insurance to suckers. Hey, maybe you bought one of my policies? Well as a courtesy for reading my tale, cancel it immediately because it is nothing more than shit on paper. 

 For several weeks, I have been experiencing sharp pains in my stomach that penetrate deep into recesses of my body I did not even know I had. I know that sounds strange but imagine the feeling of someone sliding an ice pick through your belly button, and when the handle finally reaches flesh, the son of a bitch just keeps on pushing. Being an intelligent human and so reliant on human medical know-how, treatment for this stabbing assault consists of Pepo and tums. You know, because the feeling of being raped through the naval by an ice pick must be nothing more than indigestion. Well as much of a Chuck Norris kind of guy that I am, if Chuck Norris was five foot seven and 220 pounds that is, I broke down, put my tail between my legs and went to the doctor. Two days later I received the longest two-minute call of my life. 

 “Hello, this is David Stevens.” 

“Hello Mr. Stevens, this is Dr. Strange’s office. We have the results of your recent tests. The doctor would like to discuss the results in his office." 

At this point, there is no need to get into the specifics. What more can be said? I demanded to hear the news over the phone and was told I have the big C. The walls first closed in on me like the lid of a coffin during my live burial. Laying in that coffin, sucking my last breath of air, hearing the muffled cry of my children as the lid closes and I am lowered six feet beneath the surface of this useless ball of dirt we call earth. But here is where it gets interesting. Just as that coffin lid closed and the air became thick with death (and lack of oxygen), I became free. Maybe uninhibited is the word. My Catholic education failed me because I did not think of God or the good little boy I have been. I know I did not think of God because God is the same as guilt, and guilt was the last thing on my mind. I had a thought that was hidden deep in my brain, just as deep as that shooting pain that radiates from the penetrating ice pick in my belly button. You see I am a simple man, and like all simple men I have a very short to do list, or bucket list if you like. Number one, and only one on the short list is……. I’m going to kill my wife. 

Now before you have a shit fit, keep in mind that I never said I was married to Mother Theresa. OK bad example. I never said I was married to Ghandi. Oh, shit people you know what I mean! She is a royal bitch, there you have it. A nagging old hag who will not even give me the satisfaction of a "you know what" job (I would have gladly closed my eyes and thought about that hot cashier at the Shop and Save down the street). You know the young eighteen-year-old with the low hanging blouse, push up bra, and I am just positive, missing panties. Oh yea, my cancer awareness has also done wonders for my vocabulary. A pottie mouth is pretty God damned gratifying. 

The only question now is how will it be done? Poison in her nightly Chamomile tea may work. 

 “Here is your tea dear.” 

 “David, you bastard, how many times have I told you to blow on the tea before handing it to me?” This damned tea is….is…….is urkkk….yackkkk...thud, as the queen bitch falls to the floor foaming green and yellow froth from that pie hole of a mouth. 

 Maybe drowning would be best. “Margie dear, I ran your bath water and the temperature is just right.” Just right to grab you by your bleached damaged thinning hair and hold your oversized alien head under the water until I no longer see any bubbles rise to the surface. 

 Maybe I will just throw a radio in there with you and watch as you do your underwater version of the Elvis Presley, gyrate and shake my body dance. 

Finally, in the end I decided on a good old fashion strangling but not with a rope or lamp cord.  I will just use my bare hands because just like that Jaws movie….” This time its personal.” 

So, the day finally came and here I sit in my chair looking out the window at the beautiful garden I planted last Autumn. Rows of beautiful Geraniums, blood red Roses, and Giant Sunflowers that look as though they are struggling with every fiber of their being to reach heaven and to touch the face of our creator. Oh, you noticed that I am back to my poetic self. You may also notice that I am not cursing like a crusty old sailor on shore leave in Bangkok. You may also notice that I am looking with a deep sadness at the beautiful flowers through the eyes of the poet and not the eyes of the cynical man about to be buried alive. There is a reason for such a bipolar change of emotion. 

On the “big” day I came behind dear old Margie as she sat watercolor painting in the sunroom at the far end of our remortgaged home. I silently snuck up behind her and grabbed her by that bleached damaged mop on her oversized melon. Well I used my hands and clamped down on her throat like a piece of pipe being slowly squeezed in a vice. All fear or apprehension vanished as I watched the eyes bulge from their sockets like a cartoon cat when he sees a sexy female feline walk through his path. Sorry, but it took much concentration not to laugh at this cartoon sight in my mind as I strangled the hag. 

Anyway, I decided that a decent burial is the least I can do for such an important part of my life. Even that which we hate is just as important as that which we love. I gently unearthed my flowers and gingerly placed her body underneath all of that contrasting beauty. So here I sit not caring if I get caught. In fact, I will get caught once Margie's bat sisters from her weekly book club notice she is missing. Those horrible women never liked me since day one. Those bats even smirk as they sit in my living room stinking up my castle. I bet Margie told them I have a super small penis or something like that. Anyway, when I get caught, what will happen to a guy with terminal cancer?

“Mr. Stevens, it is the judgement of the court that you spend the rest of your life in our most luxurious prison hospitals and catered to night and day by super models and strippers until your last breath.” 

How bad can that be? So, I guess this is the end of my story……. Oh, one moment please the phone is ringing. 

“Hello, this is David Stevens speaking!” 

"Hello Mr. Stevens, this is Dr. Strange’s office. I apologize sir but we mixed up your test results, you are negative for cancer. In fact, you have the health of man in his early twenties."

End

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Text: Brian Hesse
Publication Date: 10-10-2017

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