Early in our association, the Warrior Poet said, “I’m a warrior poet. Before I walk into a place, I look around to make sure I can kill everyone in the room with my bare hands.”
Now the Warrior Poet is dead. Self-inflicted.
My father. WWII. U.S. Army, frontline infantry. Battle of the Bulge. Bronze Star. Purple Heart.
Before he shoots himself, he tries to take a couple of people out with him. My evil ex-stepmother, her current husband. The bullets graze the husband, but miss the stepmother. She hits the floor, plays dead, and prays and prays to her snow-globe Jesus, her cow face pressed against filthy carpet.