It'll Be Me

It'll be me. Maybe I will not do it on my own, but when I get to STOP, then I will
definitely stop.

I won't need Jack Kevorkian around. Hell, I won't have the money for such services anyway.
I could never figure out why anyone needed assistance anyway. Just to be different. Be
in the news.

There are more out there just like him, only they are in it for the M-0-N-E-Y. Probably
gone corporate. Might be cheaper than a hit man one hires to kill the employee, but doubt it.
I want to wake up dead or go to bed that way, my life extinguished by tobacco, alcohol
and too much animal fat.

I want to get credit for one thing, people with their faces like an afterword
to a non-contemporary book, all standing around the patch in the ground.

Some workaholic perfectionist almost a hundred years young from eating granola
and broiled catfish, saying "he did it to himself". But I won't be there to hear it.

Then a small voice saying "if only I had not leveraged him so. Now he's bought the farm, on his
own ticket. Took away every grain of pride, and I damn near broke the doorknob, last time I
threw him out. We did shut down the whole family of missionary factories out in Bigtown. But that was
the unions. They voted the wrong way and besides, the poor soul we flew back here is gone to work now
in hell's kitchen. With no real future of a raise.

"So I better give him most of the credit anyway, even though I paid for the right
to keep him alive in Middletown. He did not know how to fly jets or fix cars or sell crystal balls.
When you own the horse-spittle and the funeral parlor(so to speak, with the morbid
reality--all's well that ends well, it's our cemetery and the road that goes by.
We had to do what you feel is right, and hell with what anyone else wants. Right honey?"

In his own inimitable way, Honey says nothing.