CHAPTER 42

“Fuck you, Dick Clark.”

Pete gave the TV the finger. Dick Clark, ignoring him, continued to beam. What the hell was wrong with that guy, anyway? Wasn’t he, like, eighty years old? Pete had been watching him since he was a kid. Every New Year’s until he was old enough to go out with his friends.

He should be out with his friends now, he thought. Instead he was home, sitting in just his boxer shorts alone, stoned, and drunk, watching goddamned Dick Clark and a bunch of bands nobody gave a shit about count down to the new year. Fucking T.J. It was all his fault. Pete couldn’t even think about it. Whenever he did, he got so mad he thought about killing T.J. He’d even gone out to the garage and found the gun, the one his father used to keep on the top shelf of his closet, underneath girlie magazines and the flannel shirts he wore when he went hunting. When Pete wanted to impress his buddies, he used to take them into his parents’ bedroom and show them the gun.

The gun had passed to him after his father’s death from a heart attack. His mother hadn’t wanted it in the house anymore, and so Pete had taken it. Now it sat on the coffee table. Beside it was a box of bullets, dug out of one of the boxes stacked against the garage’s far wall.

He picked the gun up and examined it. A classic Colt pistol, its surface gleamed a steely blue-black. It was heavy, substantial, a gun meant for business. His father had spent hours polishing it, telling Pete stories about the lawmen and bandits of the Old West who had carried similar weapons: Wyatt Earp, Billy the Kid, Jesse James. Later, when Pete was older, he’d taken him into the woods and shown him how to hold the piece, how to aim and pull the trigger. Once he had allowed him to actually shoot it. The recoil had nearly knocked Pete off his nine-year-old feet, but he had never forgotten the thrill of feeling the bullet lock in the chamber, the excitement of pulling the trigger, hearing the gun roar, and a split second later, seeing the empty beer can he’d targeted fly into the air, its metal skin ripped open.

He imagined taking aim at T.J., pointing the Colt at his shit-eating grin, and pulling the trigger. He saw T.J.’s head fly into a million pieces, the grin disappearing. He laughed. Wouldn’t T.J. shit his fucking pants? They’d see who the fucking faggot was then.

“The new year will be here in half an hour, folks. And you’ll see it right here.”

Pete lowered the gun. Dick Clark was talking to some chick with pink hair. Behind them, a bunch of assholes jumped up and down, waving at the camera. Dick ignored them. He was asking the girl, who had just finished lip-synching her latest hit, how it felt to have the number one record in the country.

Pete picked up the joint he’d been working on and took a toke on it. He blew the smoke out at Dick Clark’s face. That’s what Dick needed to do; he needed to get high. Then maybe the stick up his ass wouldn’t bother him so much. Then maybe he could actually act like he wasn’t so damn old and tired.

Pete laughed, pointing the Colt at Dick’s head. He imagined pulling the trigger. Blam. With one shot, Dick’s head would disappear. “No more Rockin’ New Year’s Eve for you, asswipe,” Pete said to the television.

He put the joint down and picked up a beer. “How about a cold one?” he shouted at the set as he toasted Dick with his beer. He chugged it, draining the half of the bottle that was left. When it was gone, he opened his mouth and belched, tasting pot and Cold Falls Ale.

Dick disappeared and a commercial came on. Burger King. Suddenly he remembered that he was hungry. He’d been drinking since early afternoon, but he hadn’t eaten anything since a bowl of Frosted Flakes at breakfast. He decided to see what there was in the kitchen.

He stood up, and immediately sat back down. The room swayed around him. He laughed. “You are majorly fucked up,” he told himself. “Majorly.”

He tried again. This time he was prepared for the swaying sensation, and managed to keep standing. Moving slowly, he made his way down the hall to the kitchen. It, too, was swaying. The refrigerator seemed impossibly far away. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to get there before falling down.

He did, though, but when he pulled the door open, he discovered that the only things inside were more beer and a jar of pickles. He took both out. The beer he set on the counter; the pickles he opened. He reached in and pulled one out, putting it in his mouth. It was sour. Dill. He took one bite and threw the rest of the pickle in the sink. The smell was making him sick.

He put the jar down and took up the beer, twisting the top off and dropping it on the floor. He took a long sip, killing the pickle taste in his mouth. Afterward, he felt much better, although his head was starting to throb. He needed to get back to the couch.

He made it, largely by feeling his way along the hallway wall. Once he was sitting down, though, he was all right. Sitting was good; it was standing up that was tricky. He could sit all night, sight and drink and smoke and fucking ring in the New Year all on his goddamned own.

He considered picking up the phone and calling Ronnie or Gary, but he knew they’d be out. Then he thought about calling T.J. “Hey, faggot,” he heard himself say. “Hey, you fucking cocksucker. Why don’t you come over here and suck my goddamned cock?”

Laughter poured from him. That’s what he should do. Or maybe he should go over to T.J.’s house, go over and knock on the door. When T.J. answered, he would pull the gun out and give him a scare, make him get on his knees and tell Pete what a faggot he was. Tell him how sorry he was for thinking Pete was the queer.

Even better, maybe he’d get T.J. on his knees and make him suck his cock. Hold the gun against his head while he pumped his dick in and out of T.J.’s mouth. He’d like that. He’d like seeing T.J. cry like a baby while he shot a load in his mouth.

He picked the gun up again. Holding it in both hands, he closed his eyes and imagined T.J. on the floor. He would make him strip first, so that he was naked. Then he’d hold the end of the gun at T.J.’s temple, right above his eye. He’d hold it there while T.J. took his cock in his mouth, while he put his hand on the back of T.J.’s head and buried his dick in his throat.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “You like that, don’t you?”

He slid his hand into his boxers. His dick, fighting the alcohol and pot swirling through his blood, was getting hard. He played with it while he continued his fantasy. He pressed the barrel of the Colt against his own cheek, the steel cool on his skin. He traced the line of his jaw with it while he thought about T.J.’s mouth on his prick.

“That’s the way,” he whispered, his fingers gripping T.J.’s hair.

The barrel of the gun met his lips. He opened his mouth, darting his tongue into the opening. He tasted the bitter tang of metal. The gun tapped against his teeth. He closed his lips around it, sucking.

“Are you a faggot?” he asked T.J. “Are you a good little cocksucker?”

He moved the gun in and out of his mouth as he pulled his boxers down and off. Nude, he lay back on the couch, putting his feet up on the coffee table. He stroked himself. The fingers of one hand gripped the handle of the Colt; the fingers of the other gripped his dick.

“And now we’re just fifteen minutes away from the dropping of the ball!”

Dick Clark’s voice cut through the haze of his fantasy. Pulling the gun from his mouth, Pete pointed it at the TV and pulled the trigger. He saw the screen shatter. Smoke fanned out from the place where Dick’s head had been. His arm stung.

He looked at the gun, then at the remains of the television. Apparently there had been a bullet in it. For a moment he was shaken. Then he began to laugh. He’d killed fucking Dick Clark. Put a bullet right through his big plastic head. It was pretty goddamned funny, when he thought about it.

He touched the barrel of the gun. It was warm. He put it to his lips, feeling the heat transfer from the steel to his skin. The acrid smell of powder filled his nose.

“That could have been you,” he pictured himself telling T.J. as the two of them stared at what was left of the television. “That could have been your head instead of Dick’s.”

T.J., looking at the TV, begged him to stop. Pete responded by getting on his knees, so that he and T.J. were face to face. He traced the outline of T.J.’s face with the gun’s barrel while T.J. shook, trying not to cry. He ran it down T.J.’s neck, circled one of his nipples, and continued down his belly until he reached his cock. It was hard.

“What’s this?” he asked T.J.

T.J. shook his head. Pete put the end of the barrel beneath T.J.’s balls, lifting them up. He pressed the gun into the soft place beneath T.J.’s nuts. His balls fell on either side of the barrel, brushing Pete’s fingers.

“Am I making you hard, T.J.?” he asked. “Do you like this?”

He opened his eyes and saw that he had the Colt beneath his own balls. The barrel, having cooled, bit into his skin with its cold teeth. He pushed up, pressing his balls tightly against the base of his cock. Then, slowly, he let the end of the barrel slip down.

Moving behind T.J., he placed the barrel of the gun between the cheeks of his ass. “On your hands,” he ordered.

T.J. dropped forward, supporting himself on his hands. His ass was before Pete, exposed and unprotected. Pete spread the cheeks with his hand. T.J.’s asshole stretched open. Pete spit on it, beads of saliva catching in the hair on T.J.’s thighs and balls. He pointed the gun at T.J.’s hole.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” he asked.

T.J. whimpered. Pete jabbed him with the gun. “Do you want me to fuck you?” he repeated.

“Yes,” T.J. said almost inaudibly.

“Because you’re a faggot?” Pete asked.

T.J. nodded.

“Say it. Tell me what you are.”

“I’m a faggot,” said T.J.

Pete pushed the barrel of the gun into T.J.’s asshole, watching the pink lips part and swallow the steel shaft. He kept pushing until the gun was buried to the chamber inside T.J.’s butt.

“Shall we find out if there are any more bullets?” he asked. “What do you think about that, faggot?”

T.J. didn’t answer. He was crying. His head was down, and his body shook. Watching him, Pete felt himself come. Again his eyes opened. The Colt was between his own legs. He had spread them, and the gun, held upside down, was inside him. It wasn’t T.J. he was fucking, but himself. The long shaft of the Colt was inside him, where T.J. had once been, and his hand was covered in his own stickiness.

“T.J. isn’t the faggot,” he said. “You are.”

There. He’d said it. He was queer. T.J. was right. He had wanted T.J.’s cock, and when he’d gotten it, he’d taken it all in his ass. He was just like the men he despised, a pathetic cocksucker. And like them, he deserved what he got.

He pulled the gun from his ass and brought it to his face. Again he placed it in his mouth. He ran his tongue over it, tasting himself on the barrel. He felt for the trigger. Was there another bullet left? What if there was? It no longer mattered to him. He’d discovered what he was. His cock, still hard, told him. T.J. had told him. He was a faggot, a queer, a cocksucker.

His finger found the trigger. Trembling, he pulled back on it. He heard the mechanism within the Colt start to click, felt the chamber rotate into place. In his mind he saw T.J. look up at him, grinning, and then his soul was flying across the sky.