Larry awoke with a splitting headache; last night nearly killed him. It had been seven years since he had touched a drink and aside from the clanking hammers pounding at his temples, he was glad he did. He sluggishly strolled into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, popped the top off the aspirin, which fell straight to the floor, tipped the bottle and dumped a handful into his mouth. He began to chew them as he made his way into the kitchen to the icebox where he popped the top off a cold beer, poured about half the bottle down his throat, washed down the foul tasting drugs. He took several long pulls until the bottle emptied, then got another. He made his way to his favorite recliner, sat down, clicked on the news, took one look at Newt Gingrich and tossed his stomach contents all over the floor. "For shit-sake! You're an ugly bastard," he said wiping his chin with his sleeve. "Argh. I gotta clean this mess," Larry said looking down at it all. He then looked back at the screen, Newt's mug glistening in the fine vomit-mist. He puked again, then got up and kicked the television to the floor. It smashed and sparked. "Good riddance, you fat-Fannie fucker!" he said walking into the kitchen to get some rags and a bucket. As he searched for cleaning supplies, he thought better of the ordeal and grabbed the vacuum, turned it on and sucked the vomit into the vacuum nodding his head in gleeful approval, producing a slim smile on his face. When he finished, the chunks all nestled inside the desecrated vacuum, Larry unplugged the television and stood the broken mess upright. He then vacuumed the bits of plastic and broken glass. "Too bad, Newty.... Too bad it wasn't you getting sucked up with the vomit," Larry said looking even more sinister. He went into the kitchen, grabbed three more beers and sat down at the small table. He opened the first and swilled it within seconds. The second one went just as quick. The third he sipped while contemplating something despicably grand, something that could very well save the human race. Larry sat there drinking beer for a good four hours until his head fell to the table—SMACK—he lay there, drunk with a lump, still as road kill.
Several hours later, as the hour ticked three, Larry awoke with yet another splitting headache. He preformed the same routine with the aspirin as he had done earlier. The beer ran low. He looked into his living room, the mess, the disaster, the fat-Fannie fucker. Yes, he remembered. Larry went into the room, grabbed the television with both hands and proceeded toward the front door. He opened it with his left hand, nearly dropping the set on his foot. As he walked down the hallway, broken set in his arms, he thought of how beautiful this earth could become with one problem solved. He smiled again, a bright, perfect smile, as though he had won the lottery. He opened the outside door with his foot, pushing on the lever, proceeding toward the tenant dumpster. With one giant humph, he heaved the idiot box up and over but it fell short, smashing and bouncing onto the edge before falling hard to the pavement, grazing his left knee. Larry yowled, cursed, kicked the dumpster and the television set, limping and screeching as a madman. "YOU SON OF A BITCH," he bellowed. "I'm coming for ya, Fat-Fannie." He bent over, picked up the shattered boob tube and began throwing it all around the place, everywhere but the dumpster. A few nosy neighbors peaked their heads out their windows. Larry cursed at them. They left him alone. After about ten minutes of this, he stomped back inside, marching to his room, slamming the door, THWACK. He went to the icebox pulling out the last two beers and slugged them. Seven fucking years of dried out depravity, what a joke. He saw the vacuum lying on the floor. He picked it up, marched out to the hallway and down four doors to one of the nosy neighbors who had gasped at his tantrum by the dumpster. He knocked on the door. When the old coot answered, opening the door just enough to see who it was Larry shoved the vacuum through, and into his hands before the old man could utter a word. "For your trouble," Larry said and walked away. The old coot scratched his head but took the vomit-filled gift anyway. Larry walked back into his room, the clock read ten-to-five. He sat down, polished off the rest of the beer, then walked into his bedroom. He rummaged through his closet, making a mess until he found it; stuffed way in the back was an old bottle of Four Roses whiskey, the good stuff. He had held onto it for a special occasion, and today was as good as any. Larry gently popped the cork, smelled the infused aromas, inhaled deeply, licked his lips, then took a loving pull. Life began to make sense.
He sat down on his bed gazing at the liquid splendor inside the elegant bottle. Everything encapsulated in there. Life. Cosmos. Solar complexities. The entire universe. A sense of calm overtook Larry and he took another savory taste before returning the cork, after which, he set down the bottle on his dresser then returned to the closet where he continued to search for something else.
As he pulled everything off the top shelf, it all fell to the ground with a crash and a bang. Larry rummaged through throwing things around his room. "Where is it? Where is it?" he bellowed. CHRIST. He could not locate the item. He went into the kitchen for the stepladder, brought into the bedroom, set it up in front of the closet, climbed the stairs and peeked over the shelf. He looked around until he saw it, way in the rear left corner, his pistol. "Ah ha!" he said slamming his hand atop of it. "I gotcha Fannie, Fat-Fannie. I got you, hoo-woo, baby." Larry climbed down from the stepladder happier than St. Nicholas on Christmas. The revolver he held in his hand was a 5.5 inch Colt Cowboy, a birthday gift from his father, the last gift until his father's death three months later, and good riddance to a goddamn sonofabitch. Larry carried that beautiful piece of iron in his right hand, bottle in the left. He checked the chamber, fully loaded. Another swig of the Four Roses, and for good measure, he lifted the piece, took aim at an empty beer bottle sitting on the counter, and squeezed the trigger. KAPLOW! The bottle shattered. The toaster, behind the bottle, took on a unique new look. Larry looked at the mess hoping no one called the police. He set down bottle, hid the gun in a box of cereal, then went to bed.
When he awoke the next morning, he was surprised to see nobody phoned the police. Out of curiosity and embarrassment Larry opened his front door to check the hallway; empty. He shut it. The clock struck ten-thirty. His stomach growled, but first had to take a massive dump. The whiskey lubed his insides better than coffee. He tottered to the toilet, sat down and let it fall. Larry sighed with relief as he thumbed through a month old Life magazine. All went well until midway through when he came across an article with that white-haired bastard staring at him, calling him out. "What's the matter, Larry? You chicken shit, bastard. Come and get me if you got the nuts." Larry threw the magazine into the shower stall. "Oooo, Fat-Fannie," Larry said rubbing his face with his hands in anger. "It was you that cost mom her life savings...you and the rest of those corporate sleaze bags. I'll get you. I'll get all of you." Larry wiped, stood up, flushed, washed, grabbed the bottle and walked out. Half gone, he thought. He swallowed a couple mouthfuls. The clock read eleven-fourteen. He new where he had to go. Today, old Newty was to give a speech in Des Moines, Iowa—a mere four hours west. Larry had to get moving if he were to make it on time.
He made a list of things he would need. "Let's see," Larry thought aloud. "I need bullets, gun, bottle, cash, change of clothes, hat and sunglasses, gloves, and a box of crackers for the ride. Yeah, that ought to do it." Larry ran about the place gathering the things on the list, then ran out, down the hallway, and out the door to his car, a beat up nineteen eighty-two Buick. He tossed everything into the back seat, hopped inside, put the key in the ignition and turned. REEEE-UR-ET-EH-ET-EEEEE-KABLAM it backfired and started. Off he went across the dead and dying America to do mankind a favor.
The road traveled smoothly. The sun shone bright. Life on planet earth breathed and moved. Larry swilled Four Roses, ate crackers, listened to classical and jazz, gazed into the oncoming fortune of destiny as the old Buick hummed and bucked. After two hours on the road, he stopped off for gas. As the attendant filled the tank, Larry went inside the store for some beer, a thick cigar, and a turkey sandwich, all the while keeping an eye on the gas attendant, making sure he did not look in through the rear window and see his plans on the back seat. Larry paid the bill at the counter, fifty-three dollars even. He walked out of the store and back to the car with his bag of items under his left arm. Setting the bag on the front passenger seat, looked things over, he started the engine with a few backfires then roared off westward.
As he drove, he ate his sandwich and washed it down with beer. After the sandwich, he lit his cigar. Life seemed pleasant traveling seventy miles per hour. Larry puffed his cigar, sucked beer, and sang a song that went with the jazz melody on the radio, "Oh, oh, Fat-Fannie, Oh, oh, you fatty boy. It is time, it iiiiisssss timmme to die. A message better than those foooooollllssss of Occupy..." and on and on is such silliness as that. But for the first time in his life, Larry had purpose. He could not hack it as a soldier, they deemed him psychologically unfit. His father was a jackass and his mother, rest her soul, lost her savings and could no longer pay the health insurance to fight her cancer. For Larry Wittier, this was his last chance to make his mark, to deliver the message: We Americans will no longer sit around and starve while you Fat-Fannie fuckers tip and break the scales.
When Larry arrived at the destination, he was late, the speech had been begun nearly thirty minutes ago, he stood in the rear of the crowd. There were all sorts of people there supporting this nut. Everybody seemed to intently listen. Larry honed on his target, gun in his jacket. He reached inside, wrapped his hand around the handle of the piece, caressed it, visualized just how it would go down. There were police all over the place. He thought, if necessary, he might have to take his own life to avoid prison, a martyr for the cause. Larry waited patiently for the right moment, fifteen minutes ticked by and just when Newt was about to end the speech and take questions, Larry slid his hand inside his overcoat, placing it on the handle of the revolver. He languidly inched it out and took aim. The person next to him saw what he was doing, and screeched. Larry fired one shot. It sailed from the short barrel striking Newt in the right bicep, the crowd scattered, mass hysteria. Five or six men from the stage pulled their pieces and opened fire. Larry took the slugs in the chest and went down. As he did, he yelled his dying words, "It is time for the revolution! Revolt or die." He fell to his knees clutching his chest, gasping for breath. Newt was long gone, headed for the hospital. Police and security swarmed the place. Larry collapsed to the earth, eyes open. He never intended on making a clean escape. He knew his number was up, but he had to make it count. His life had to mean something, stand for something.
What nobody knew about Larry was that two weeks ago he received his final notice; the Grim Reaper pink slip. His insurance carrier deemed the cancer treatment he needed as experimental, and therefore not covered by the insurance company; they refused to continue his health coverage. DOOMED TO DIE. He suffered the same misfortune as his mother. All his life he slaved for the man, because slavery never died, it just took on a new disguise. The death notice arrived via mail, and that was how he knew he was a slave, because only your owner could issue you a death sentence and get away with it. His mother lost her life and her savings because of greedy fat-cats, and Larry lost his life. Was Newt the proper target? Maybe so, maybe not, but he got rich at the expense of others, just like his cronies. Let us just call it symbolism. Fat-Fannie Fucker.