Billy's Wish: Difference between revisions
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Gil sat down on the couch with an exasperated sigh. He picked up the remote and clicked through a few channels with each subsequent channel, his frustration grew. There was nothing on the T.V., every channel had those damn Pokemen or those Adventurer Times. There was nothing there for a sixty-year-old man to watch. There really
Fucking Billy. It had become his mantra for everything these past three years. He spat,
Gil hated that boy so much. He hated the fact that he was now king of the universe. He hated that Billy had over a gazillion dollars, which was now an actual unit of measurement. Most of all, he hated Billy for his first wish. No one knew how he got his hands on a magic genie lamp (or that they even existed), but everyone knew what his first wish was. Billy looked at the towering djiin that had sprouted from the lamp and said those damnable words,
Ever since then, the world had been warped to his perception of reality. Storks carried babies to the houses of expecting parents. Fiendish anthropomorphic sea-life arose from the ocean, from what was once its home. (Where they had in fact once lived in a pineapple under the sea.) Sports teams were now populated with dogs who were professional quarterbacks, pointgaurds, and goalies. To say Gil disliked that eight-year-old boy was a massive understatement.
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Gil angrily shut off the television and rose from his couch with a belabored groan. His back hurt from his long day at the fire station. There were only three types of occupations left in the world and he was too out of shape to be an astronaut and too uneducated to be a doctor. That left only fireman. Luckily most of his work today involved rescuing cats from trees and not running into raging infernos, but still, he missed his office job where he could sit on his ass all day and get paid for it.
He went to the freezer and pulled out another bottle of silly juice. It had once been whiskey, but
Gil sat back down on the couch. He hoped that some part of his body or brain would remember the lingering response it used to have to whiskey and give him some long-forgotten buzz. It
He had nothing left. Fucking Billy. His wife had been taken from him. She had spent the last few weeks coughing. Gladys waved off his concern, telling him it was just a cough or maybe allergies. By the time that he managed to talk her into visiting a doctor, it was too late. She coughed viciously for a few minutes before pitching over dead. Doctors said it was the worst case of cooties they had ever seen this side of the hemisphere.
Gil flicked out the chamber and counted the bullets. There were five and that was more than enough. He only needed one. He really wished the then-whiskey now-silly juice had lowered his inhibitions some. It would have been so much easier to put the barrel to his head if he was drunk beforehand. He
Gil paused for a moment as if decided what his final words should be. He chose them carefully. He smiled as he raised the revolver and put it under his chin. He fanned the hammer back and listened to the satisfying click. He took a deep breath, so deep his lungs expanded to twice the size of his body, and shouted out so the whole neighborhood could hear him.
Gil squeezed the trigger. There was a bright flash and then pain. His death
He moaned,
He looked at himself in the mirror and felt a laugh bubble up from deep within him. He
''Fucking Billy.''
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