[ WP ] A robber breaks into your house at the worst moment possible : while you have diarrhea .

A cake is not just a cake it is an anomaly of all its ingredients. It would be nothing without the flour, eggs, milk and sugar. When all are together none are identifiable as their former selves. This gun in my mouth is the cake. The end result. The mixed ingredients of months of playing the game as a spectator while being treated like a participant. 
 
 I am here flavored a fool, with foolishness dripping from an opened wound in my forehead and the taste of foolery in my mouth. 
 
 A long stringy red stream of saliva slips from my open lips and dangles touching the white polo shirt covering my chest leaving tiny pink dots after impact as it stretches to the floor. My eyes are glued to the man's in front of me. Light blue orbs that are n't here are n't focused will never focus again. 
 
 His name is Marty, maybe Martin dots his birth certificate, but for me over the last three weeks he's been Marty last name could be Dick, not that I know for sure, but that is how he is mentioned, `` Marty the Dick.'' His middle name has changed hundreds of times. Ranging from Selfish to Jealous, and even touching briefly on Gay. It was a game. I enjoyed coming up with new varieties of dick Marty could be. 
 
 I stirred these ingredients, folding in Marty the gay with Linda the dead. 
 
 I am the reason this Sunday night was not spent watching the Sopranos, or catching the Family Guy or jerking off. 
 
 Linda lies prone behind me. My foolery helped put that bullet in her head. 
 
 Her foot twitches. 
 
 I catch it in the corner of my eye. For some reason it brings me hope. I ca n't help but think about this Special forces medic I met who had to keep a goat with a head wound alive for days on the way to graduating his training. 
 
 I wait to see if it twitches again. 
 
 Marty shot her right off after kicking in the door. It was the last impressive thing he did. I had to put this fucking glitch in my own mouth. 
 
 When I finally got on the scene Marty seemed to have slipped in the head. He held the cake loosely in a quivering fist. It was easy. 
 
 I do n't shit in front of my women at first. Who does? It was the Indian food this night that put me in the bathroom leaving her alone in what I considered the sanctuary of my apartment. I heard the door being kicked in and even wiped my ass before reaching for the pants around my ankles, but the sink and my head found out the hard way two solids will not incorporate without pain. 
 
 The single gunshot was helpful in a way. 
 
 It woke me up. 
 
 I staggered into the single room that serves as my living space. The first thing I see is the pile of dishes in my sink. I curse how it makes me look. Then I notice the pile of trash under the sink spilling from the filled trash can I keep meaning to empty. Then the littered clothing I mean to one day pile up and launder. Then the unmade bed I meant to have been employed on before being freelanced into the bathroom. Then the puddle of cooling blood staining the cheap Wal-Mart carpet on my floor strands of strawberry blond hair flayed through it as if gelled. 
 
 I did n't look at her face. 
 
 I did n't look at her hands covering her face. 
 
 I did n't look at the stretched ridiculous death grin, under those hands splayed as if wrought by the worst of the worst kind of Charlie horse, with clenched teeth, clenched as if she actually felt the bullet cracking her skull and burrowing itself though her soft grey brain before blowing the back of her head all over my TV playing an episode of Reno 911 on mute. 
 
 It was on lunch one day. We had talked before. She had a kid, the father was this guy she lived with. 
 
 `` Do you smoke?'' I asked. 
 
 `` Sure.'' 
 
 We retired to my car and sparked a bowl, which sparked hand touching and then lip touching and then genital touching all on a half an hour period we were meant to eat something on. 
 
 Who would have done different? Who could have turned down the American dream of the work place fuck? 
 
 Not I! 
 
 I attacked! 
 
 She will always be special, But her foot does n't move again. 
 
 And here I am. 
 
 Standing above the platter on which my cake sits. My stomach growling begging to be feed my reward for this effort. Face soaked. The sweat and tears and blood my icing. 
 
 I am alone. 
 
 My efforts at valiantry months late. I bite down and taste the cold steel. With the squeal of sirens in my ear, the trigger lights under my thumb. 
 
 Who would do different?
