::Happiness is a Warm Gun

The last rays of the day glinted off the polished barrel of the Smith
& Wesson .45 revolver Gary held securely to his temple. Gary licked
his lips. The tear-salted taste mentally reinforced him of his resolve
to pull the trigger.

"Soon, this would all be over.  I'll finally be free," he reassured himself.

Gary tensed his index finger gently applying pressure to the trigger.
He listened anxiously for the inviting click of the hammer of the gun
but instead the grating shrill of the phone was all that he heard.

Grimacing at the interruption, Gary tried to ignore the relentless ringing.

"I should have unplugged the phone from the wall," though he seemed to remember he had.

Begrudgingly, Gary released the hammer on the pistol and set it on the table.  The tarp he had laid out crunched beneath his feet like dried dead leaves as he walked across the room to rectify his forgotten task.  As he reached for the phone, something inside of him urged him to answer it.

"Curiosity?" he thought.  "More like sadist intentions to endure yet
another 'generous' caller wanting to save me loads of money on long
distance."

"Inconsiderate pricks," the words reverberated through the bare
kitchen. "I'll give them something to remember me by," and yanked the receiver from the cradle of the phone.

"Listen here you miserable FUCK! I don't want whatever you are
selling. After today I won't be much in the market from much of
anything short of a mop, a bucket, and a pine box. And I already have
two of the three."

He was answered with silence. He stood puzzled for a moment, almost taken back. He hadn't meant to be so abrasive but the swell of emotion took over and erupted from his insides. He suddenly felt guilty.

"Hello?" he squeaked.  "Didn't mean to give you both barrels."

Still the reply was dead air. He slowly hung up the phone and a
chuckle bubbled up inside of him which escaped through his nose in a
snort.

"Both barrels," he smiled at his own joke, "I'd be happy to be getting back to my one."

He walked back over to the table straightening a crease in the tarp as
he went. He wanted this moment more than anything but he was not
inconsiderate of others. He had planned this event out with a
meticulous mind ensuring that his actions would not cause whomever found him a lot of work in cleaning up. He had set out a large blue tarp on the floor of his kitchen and even hung an orange tarp on the wall opposing his chair to catch any bone or brain matter that might explode from his head in the next few minutes. A mop and bucket were set next to the back door with a gallon of bleach and a hose. A box of rubber kitchen gloves completed the ensemble. He was generally a tidy person and he wanted to be sure that he provided the means to keep his home clean after he was done fulfilling his destiny.

He sat at the table and picked up the pistol. He felt the weight of
the piece in his hand. He particularly like the way the pistol molded
in his grip, reassuring him that he was on the right path. He felt at
ease. Placing the barrel against his right temple, he rejoiced at the
coldness of its touch.

"Death's finger upon my brow.. Sweet darkness take me now." He had practiced the cheesy lines many times and now that he was speaking them at the moment of truth, he felt reinforced.

"Did you unplug the phone? Did you check?" The random thought jarred him from his daydream of quietus.

He snarled and placed the gun down on the table once more and trotted over to the phone. He followed the cord of the phone to the jack. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the phone blared into his ear.  Catching his breath, he ignored the ringing and continued his search for the end of the cord.

"Not this time, mother fucker," he grumbled as he followed the cord to its end. He pulled the cord quickly through one hand and stood erect as he reached the plug. Holding the plug in his hand he turned and eyed the still ringing phone.