Ending Pops
Last night I drove to my father’s house with a bomb strapped to my chest. The white moon shone down on my white skin and all the straps and wiring and clips and connections and solder and the small black button that was waiting there impatiently for me. A well-wired and powerful explosive. In this world there is nothing more beautiful.
I was going to use the bomb to fight this modern sickness. —This petty, nasty, cares-for-nothing slyness that my father started back when he ruled the world. I think he did it out of sheer inner spite; a sort of cannibalism. Anyway, I stepped into his bedroom and penetrated the small black button and ended him.