Important Stuff: The following is a work of fanfic, this is not my beautiful monster, this is not my beautiful world. Written for homage, not profit.

Rating: Ugly-- egocentric little death story. No sex, no happy stuff.

Warning: The opinions expressed by Joe Dick, resident punk rock monster muse @ the HOS are his own and do not necessarily reflect those of the author.

Thanks: Melissa, for holding me through the worst of the embarrassment, Amy, for liking the ugly baby, Shug and Kat, for a clean wash and an ego-shot, and Zen, for everything.

Unimportant Stuff: Joe Dick thanks Sid Vicious, Wendy O. Williams, GG Allin.



If there's one thing I know about suicide, it's that it doesn't get any easier with age.

I had the chance to die young, to die a quick, painless and blameless death. Avoiding it has brought me to this; worrying about the thickness of my skull and where the fuck is the temporal lobe. To this, the irrefutable and infallible (I hope) evil of a handgun. Death in my front pocket. Can't trust this one to razor blades, too many deflated little veins, too many choices. Can't trust heroin- she fucked me the first time, the unreliable cunt.

Everybody's going to ask why, use all those cliché words like tragic and untimely and who knows what, maybe some other little up and coming fuck will lie about it and make some money. The truth is too stupid to tell anybody. I'm just tired, tired and pissed, and until he lied and fucked me over this last time, I even thought I was tired of being angry, too. Nope.

He won...whatever he wanted, and I lost. I'd rather turn my lights out than have to live with that and hate him for the rest of my life. I know what life's like without him, I've had four years of that pointless, relentless shit, and I'm not going back there. This is the only way I can be absolutely certain I'm never going to spend another night jonesing for cocaine, or hungry or alone.

I've been walking around with this fuckin' hunk of metal in my coat pocket for almost four solid years now, and everyday I wake up, and I feel the same thing- BANG. Just bang. It's like I've been waiting and waiting, for something, but I didn't know what. Now, I do. I was waiting to make sure he wasn't going to change his mind, holding out on one last bet. Should have figured greed would win. You can't play cards with greed, she'll eat you every time.

I'm gonna be setting a precedent for punk rock suicides, I think. Overdose is the industry standard, set by none other than John Simon Ritchie, a.k.a. Sid Vicious, all the way back in '79. Nobody's blown their brains out yet- least nobody I know. That's a bit of a surprise, when you think about what this business does to you. It eats your fuckin' soul, unless you eat it first. Make yourself into a nasty enough monster that they can't touch you, can't take when there's nothing there to rob.

Thirty-five feels like a ripe old age to die. To tell the truth, I've been waiting on this for a god awful long time. At first I thought there was going to be all kinds of glory- you always do. Then I thought it would be painless- like a reward. Now, I've outlasted the son of a bitch, and the Reaper doesn't look like anything more than another asshole who wants a piece of me.

It sure has been one hell of a ride. I wish he were here, though, I'd like to have one last drink. It's probably a good thing he's not. It's always that, wait for one last drink, one last time, and then when I get it he'll smile that perfect, perfect fuckin' Billy smile or he'll make me laugh like the old days, and then I'll have enough to put it off for a while. Which is how I got to be an old man leavin' a bloated, ugly corpse in the first place. Road years run about three to one verses normal humans, and my body feels like I'm pushing ninety.

Fuck this. Fuck this ugly world and fuck Billy Tallent. Oh yeah, you better fucking believe I'm ready for this. I'm so ready I'm not even really interested in a last shot anymore, but the camera's there so I might as well... I'm proud, because I actually pull it off. I look the camera in the eye, look right at the best friend that will be staring back at me on this tape after it's all over, and I don't say a word to him. No last bullshit. I've had enough. So has he, he's had enough of my shit to last him a lifetime. I don't want any last rights, I don't want any last good-byes, I don't want any last words of fucking wisdom. I just wanna blow.

"What is it, one shot and then salut?"