Jeffrey “Jeff” Mathias, heavily bearded, sat glumly on his unmade bed, a .45 in his lap. Lux, a small grey cat, mewled ineffectively outside his locked door.
Jeff looked longingly at the .45, admiring its precision, its steel plating, its cruel American ingenuity. It had not been a good year for Jeff and he was eager to be done, to rest. Stroking the handgun one last time, he raised it to his head and wrapped his lips around the barrel, his finger gently squeezing the trigger, a single tear running down into his beard.
“Nein.”
A strong hand in a leather glove, emblazoned with a swastika, gently removed Jeff’s hand.
Jeff looked up and met the steely but benevolent gaze of Rusty’s bedroom eyes.
“Tom Depaola ist der #fuccboi die sterben sollte.”
A quiet calm came over Jeff. Rusty clasped him in loving embrace, the handgun forgotten on the bed.
Tom Depaola was responsible.
Tom Depaola must die.
It began to rain.
“Tommmmmmm!” said Jeff, his head cast back. “Tommmmm!”
A thunderclap.
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