home is bad

it was December 1967 when I first met 'El Finko' as he was then known. He was wearing the standard has-been uniform of starched denim and wax, and was smoking a thick Cheroot. Every so often he would gingerly touch his groin. I was disgusted.

I had been a fan of his since the start of the decade and was shocked to see the decline of my one-time idol. I remembered watching him perform his hits on 'BlockStoppers'.

I knew what I had to do. I removed the Derringer from my top pocket and shot him once in the knee. He wailed in agony as the bullet ripped through his bone.

'Forgive me.' I whispered, my voice hoarse with Streptococi.

'Leave me alone, Jeremy!' He shouted, blood mingling with discarded tuna flakes on the floor. I kicked him in his face, my foot disappearing into the chubby folds of his cheeks.

I knew then that I could never go back to my normal life.

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