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A Job Worth DoingA Job Worth Doing
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It starts with one of the deputies finding an abandoned pickup truck at the side of a road near the beach. What they found disturbing about the truck was that, not only was it unlocked, there was a fair amount of blood in the cab-- on the seat, on the door handles, the door itself, and in an open box of 12-guage shotgun shells that was sitting on the seat. There was a discharged shell there, also bloody. The gun rack was ominously empty.
Since the blood was of the wet, red and sticky variety, rather than the dried and rust-brown variety, and 'cause he'd seen enough cop shows to know better, the deputy called himself in a load of backup before proceeding. Once Sheriff Dad and the rest of the posse showed up, they began a thorough search of the area. It wasn't long before they found a spray pattern of energetically excised brain matter that led to a semicephalous corpse wearing sandals, blue jeans, a lot of blood and a single-barrel break-open shotgun, recently discharged. Why? Because a thin trail of dried blood led them there. There was also a separate, smaller spray pattern at the point of the subject's departure which piqued their curiosity.
Their recently-cobained friend was missing the back of his head and most of his face above his eyebrows, and the part below hadn't fared too well, either. What the deputies found odd was that one cheek was mostly intact, while the other was little more than a gaping, ragged hole. That was a head scratcher for all involved. What the fuck? they'd say to each other, did he just have a weak cheek or something?
Once the forensics guys finished snapping their customary six rolls of film and had gathered up all the fun bits into plastic baggies, the scene was reconstructed thusly:
Sad, despondent, no-shirt-wearing loser takes the truck out in search of a piece of solitude where he might kiss his single-shot shotgun goodnight. On finding the place, he takes a shell out of the box on his seat, loads Darwin's chosen agent for the night, and trudges about thirty yards into the landscape. After taking a seat, cross-legged, he contemplates his desolate surroundings and his sorry condition for awhile before checking out the taste of his barrel. He mumbles "Goodbye cruel world" around the gunmetal and then pulls the trigger.
Instead of oblivion, he is greeted by searing, blinding pain. Numbnuts had his head tilted entirely the wrong way and blew out his cheek-- meat, molars and all. So, not only does his life suck, but he's just blown himself a new orafice, and it hurts like a motherfucker. His mood darkens. Grunting and cursing as best as one can do with only one and a half jaws and half a face, he staggers the thirty-odd yards back to his truck, bleeding profusely all the while. Once there, he opens the cab, bleeds some more, and removes another shell from the box with a blood-soaked hand.
With his shotgun ready once more, he retraces his steps back to his chosen spot, has a seat, pays a little closer attention to the way his head is oriented as he fastens a liplock on Death's dong, and pulls the trigger. He is rewarded by a brain-smashing blast in the right direction.
The way Sheriff Dad sees it, he might have been better off had he succeeded the first time, but he was definitely better off having succeeded the second time.
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