Hold My Horses-Chris Bower

Story To Be Published in an In-Flight Magazine

I killed a man.  Big deal.  It was only a big deal to me when I was killing him.  You watch all your TV shows about killing people and you think it’s all either mindless and awful or some incest or 9/11 thing but sometimes, people get killed and that’s all that mattered. This was a 9/11 thing, it turns out. I was the man who killed Osama bin Laden. I killed him because he looked at me wrong in a strip club in Nebraska. What the fuck were both of us doing in Nebraska? What everyone does in Nebraska, to look at naked girls and trying to kill the first person you see looking at you funny. When the cops told me who I killed, I said, “You fucking with me?” They thought I was part of some clandestine jew gang or something and I could tell they were just this close to shaking my hand and hugging me about what I done. I killed a man because he looked at me the wrong way. Big fucking deal. National Medal of Honor? I’ll stick that up your ass before you can say, “God,you ain’t up there are you?”

If you are, what the fuck do you got to say about it? So they put me on death row cause I didn’t kill him for the right reasons. “You could have had parades”, they said. “You could have been holding his beard like a trophy on Time Fucking Magazine.”

Fuck them to the fucking moon. Man, this is pretty fucking complicated country. Fucking simpleton bullshit. Did he wound me?  I ain’t fucking wounded.  I’ve had this shit since I was 12.  Some suit and tie guy named Durbin, some senator or shit came over and pushed his cigar into my arm and said, “George Ryan will never get another cent from this state” and then some lady was yelling, “Oh yes he will” and that’s all I remember about my scar.  Wait, there is one more thing I remember.  When I got out of surgery a sugary cloud like a fat sack of sopping cotton candy came to me in a dream and told me about 9/11, all about planes flying into those two tall stacks of shit and expected me to be impressed.  After I wasn’t the cloud added, “9/11 is your birthday” and I said, “Duh.” Remember when you were young and your birthday mattered? All that matters when you are old is the day you are going to die. At least I know mine you fucking cocksuckers. 
written for and read at Quickies at the Innertown Pub  7/1310.