The following treatise should explain what I have done to the friends and loved ones of the deceased. I do not seek sympathy or forgiveness through this confession, I only wish to document what I have done to betray any errors that may come up the coming investigation. I have no reason to mislead. Let this document be an arc to carry the bitter truth.
There was a young woman, a snort-and-chortle woman. An I-don’t-care-who-knows-it woman. She was lounging at a sidewalk café with three others of her breed. Long looks of disapproval to passing people. Glossy lips and airbrush tans. Permanent make and semi-permanent breast enhancement. Pastels and sandals. Bloody Mary’s and itching Labia’s. They spoke of the violently banal subjects like bad sex with strangers and six-thousand dollar handbags.
There was the God blesser. A barely restrained zealot whose emotions are tempered by mid-afternoon fishbowl margaritas and cosmetic gardening. She was a Wal-Mart widow with an SUV and leather skin. Sallow cheeks and brand-name diamonds. Little orange bibles and a magazine rack by the couch. Vinyl siding and silk flowers.
Then the enabler. The hard-line voter. He sat on the fence between Republican and Libertarian. He fought the Living Wage. He fought reparations. He fought environmental protection. All from the comfort of his office chair. He only had a phantom of sentience. Blank stare from vacant, medicated calm. Hunting license and crystal-clean hiking boots. Money clip and sky-high cholesterol. NRA patches and insulin needles.
They all passed away recently. I didn’t save them, but I could have. I could have saved them. I could have saved them, but didn’t.
This one's a match made in - well, somewhere, anyway. The title was given to Butch by Jen, our favoritest bartender over at McRaney's Tavern. As is obvious, she is not to be fucked with. The fact that she calls Butch "Bruiser" is testimony to the fact that he was just about perfect to write this one.