Bubba Roy, he’s got a power saw, soldering iron, a gas grill, a lawn mower, a hoist, anything could happen. A drill. That’s all so dangerous. Hope he’s careful, the old man said.
The old man reviewed the options through the cracked blinds, morning sun behind him. He couldn’t really do what he wanted to do. What he wanted to do was to tape Bubba’s balls to a generator and clip his boobs to a RV battery and shove that leaf blower he started at seven-thirty one Sunday morning right up his ass. Turned on high. Then the old man would lower the blades on the noisy fucking lawn mower that only started up when he was trying to nap. And drive it back and forth over his face. Full-throttle.
Only then would I use the hoist, he thought. Make it look like suicide.
Leave a note.
Oh, Christ. Just what would Bubba Roy’s note say? The old man decided such a composition would require the skills of a consummate and talented professional. He took a walk and got a beer.
What would a moron – self-taught – say in a farewell address. Probably keep it short.
Something warm like… Mom, this is not what it looks like. Got the lawn mower fixed. Have a nice day. Bubba Roy.
The old man walked whenever he was confronted by something he didn’t understand. Big reason he was so skinny.
A power saw would just be too messy. He got all tingly thinking about carving a large slice out of Bubba Roy’s southern brisket. So fun that would be. But too messy. Much too messy. The old man decided to go with the hoist. Had a certain auto-erotic asphyxia sense to it. And he wanted the motherfucker to suffer. Wanted to see his legs twitch and reach for life.
Shit got personal at seven-thirty one Sunday morning when Bubba Roy started pressure-washing his driveway. You could hardly hear Kid Rock over the whooooshing noise. Don’t get me started. Just the other day Bubba Roy had dropped a bag of fertilizer on a fire ant mound and drowned the whole pile in gasoline. Something of an animal behaviorist – self-taught – Bubba Roy was none the less surprised when the ants only became more belligerent.
More retirement communities should have science fairs. Just an idea. But Bubba Roy, the self-taught entomologist-slash-chemist, drags that block of crap looked like IED out in front of his driveway and tries to prove you can melt a toxic chemical down the road and all that is left is a gigantic orange stain like a red carpet in front of the old man’s lawn, now poisoned back a good three inches. Edged so to speak. As was the old man.
Definitely, the hoist. And the note? Two words scratched on a pizza box,
NO MORE.