So much red ink in school. Gray hairs in my beard… I’m too old to have my Olds signing checks for me. The most official thing I’ve signed is for the death of my firstborn son. And his little tan hairs are replaced with white ones. B’s DIE Job Virgil
Wednesday, August 23, 2023
Tale 053 ~B’s DIE Job Virgil~
Forgive Me, Echo,
I AM a Billionaire right now, and I’d say anything or do anything… Other than saying my boy’s dead or killing him…
Again? But as I approach thirty-nine, that’s the only thing I can hold as an accomplishment —the stuff on “my” Bucket List. I want to be in love. And I want to know what It’s like to kill… thank you, Eli Roth. Am I better off than The 40-Year-Old Virgin… There have been girls. A lot… Why aren’t I a billionaire already? And have I paid for sex? Do I need a priest? Uh, we’ll get to that Inspector. But on the subject of death. The only one that’s come close to my wrath looks at me in the mirror every morning. Why are we talking about this this morning? Afternoon, considering time travel. Today is Thursday, August 17, 2023. But on Sunday, January 31, 2021. Braxton’s Fire and Blood.
Must I be so dramatic? And as if I could be like George R. R. Martin. Aren’t I a writer? Inspector, this whole damn month, I’ve felt like “Comic Book Guy” on The Simpsons. Oh!
How many days have I spent writing, and for what? It’s not fear, Inspector… Laziness. This is one more reason I’m not a doctor. Well, a scientist. Suppose you asked me for specifics besides me being STUPID. Inspector, I’ve looked into Virology. Zombie Virus? Solanum? Maybe I do need a priest. But I would never become one. Once upon a time, someone said I would become a preacher. I only had a use for God with two things, you know. To save my son. And for sex… How’s the brothel?
I’m not ashamed of saying I wanted to be Dennis Hof, Hugh Hefner, Larry Flynt. A particular photographer. Or The Most Talented Man In The World, Johnny Sins. My God! Inspector, what am I going to do? I still have a few weeks if I’m lucky. Will my Olds call? I wouldn’t blame them at all. My entire 30s have been one freaking disappointment, Echo. Hell! This existence. What am I, Inspector? The only comfort Braxton had was my love. And that only gets you so far. Again, look to my Olds. A son with a part-time Day Job who writes. All their checks vs. my words. One last job? Ruin me and Braxton’s existences. Virgil’s here, white hairs replacing brown/beige/tan. B’s DIE Job Virgil
934 Days Without B III, Day 375 of Virgil’s Arrival
BLM Braxton’s Life Matters,