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A pigeon detective  

Wanted: Assassin
January 2007

A fragment of a short story by D.W. Burke.

A pigeon detective

I've been ruminating lately on the matter of assisted suicide. Or, more particularly, on the possibility of finding an accomplice to assist in concluding my wretched tenure on the planet.

I want someone to shoot me. Preferably someone proficient in the grubby art of execution.

D.W. Burke
D.W. Burke

Someone who could administer a single tidy shot to the temple sufficient to liberate my soul from its present anatomical host, even if the resultant mess of shattered bone and brain (never mind the Pollock-like abstractions engendered by the spontaneous explosion of so much blood) would render this modest one-bedroom apartment uninhabitable again without an extensive makeover, the very fact of which would reduce the dear landlord, niggardly creature that he is, to that peculiar kind of sweaty, bug-eyed madness that possesses those from whom the subtraction of any sum of capital equates to the removal of a vital organ.

At this juncture I should express my scepticism of the whole transcendent soul thing. It's not a concept to which I wholly subscribe, though I refuse to completely dismiss it on the premise that I have yet to encounter a dead person who could offer proof or otherwise.

But I was raised a Catholic and Catholicism is a bit like echolalia, that form of Tourette's characterised by vocal tics which involves the repitition of words of phrases used by others.

In the case of the Catholic, lapsed or not, this assumes the form of a mythical language drilled into us by diligent, determined disciples of God from the baptisimal font through the confessional to the crypt.

I still look for heaven whenever I manage to contain my phobia of flying. And I won't venture too far beneath the surface of the earth on the admittedly outside chance that I might be cornered by one of Satan's little helpers. Such is the omnipotence of indoctrination into the one true faith. But I digress.

I was discussing assisted suicide. Confiding in you my search for a collaborator. A trigger man, if you will. Or woman. Sexual orientation, indeed any identity tag, is irrelevant. Just make it quick, will you?

Links

D.W. Burke - Folk / Acoustic

 
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