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Suicide Jack · (03-01-2017)

Tidbits – did you receive the letter I sent you?

Of course you did, I went to great lengths to ensure you would. I added time to my life just to make certain that you’d get a little token from me, from a very particular time, since you seemed to take so much pride in this asinine “warrior class” you’ve arbitrarily lumped yourself into.

See, Tidbits – by the way, who the fuck are you to pick on a name like Suicide Jack while running around with a name that you can only get along with a court order to remain more than 500 feet from a school at any given time?

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. A man of the “warrior class” deserves a little special attention, and you got it. But it comes with a caveat. See, your little exhibition might have scared someone unlike me. Hell, it might have scared me back in 2002, right up until by 18th “birthday.” That was fifteen years ago though. Almost 5,000 days. Do you know why I’m so specific about that, Tidbits? Because every day means a new death. Not for others, no, no, I’m not a murderer. I’m not even aggressive, I don’t think. No need for it. That’s the sort of small minded Semper Fi bullshit that starts meaningless wars and turns conversations into bloodshed. That’s what leads a man to “spar” on camera in lieu of just pulling his genitalia out and pissing all over the wall like a dog marking what’s his. Schoolyard bully tactics that don’t scare men who have seen things.

Yes, I watched your message for me. It was very sweet. I woke up in my bed after falling from a fourth floor window in New York and splattering my brains across the concrete with a yawn. Then I watched it. I don’t remember which experience I enjoyed more.

I thought about it and thought about it and thought about it some more, and it occurred to me that a man like you will only respect someone who’s been steeled on the field of battle. Of course, you had no way of knowing that I’ve stood in the middle of turf wars in El Salvador, while Mara Salvatrucha fighters cut the arms and tits off of their enemies’ wives. Or that I watched a man twice your own size cry and shit himself while the Viet Cong came in endless waves across a jungle hill. You had no way of knowing that I have seen conflicts that haven’t even happened yet. It isn’t fair of me to have expected that of you.

But… I have to admit, I found it a little insulting when you suggested my actions were those of a coward. Mister Tidbits, have you ever considered for a single moment what it takes to kill yourself? What it takes to end your own life, and then get up and do it again the next day, and every day after, forever? How many men would have the balls to put the barrel of a gun in their mouth? Or to leap from a bridge? Or lie across the third rail?

You could never do it. You’d be stuck in some 70s discotheque right “now” if you’d been born with my persuasion. Unable to do the only thing you can do to get yourself home in one piece. You’d have spent a decade as a weak little homosexual, too afraid to come out and too afraid to end it.

But I wasn’t afraid. I understood. I learned the lesson of the morning of my 18th… when I woke up not in the bed I’d fallen asleep in after a congratulatory handjob from my High School sweetheart, but in the seat of an airplane that was already hurtling towards the side of a mountain, filled with people screaming in a language I’d never heard. That was the day I met Death, Mister Tidbits, and he and I are good friends now. I see him every day.

Not the way a “warrior” does, of course. I have the guts to meet Death personally, instead of sitting back and wondering what it’s like.

Do you want to know what it’s like?

No, of course you don’t. Who would spar and talk about courage if you died, after all? It would be left to those of us who knew what we were talking about, and that simply cannot be. Isn’t that right?

Anyway.

I recognized you for what you are and I made a mental note to write you that letter the next time I found myself on a battlefield. You’d have been impressed with the one I finally ran across, I think. Blood and guts and piss everywhere. All those “warriors” crying for their mothers and hiding behind their dead friends. Ten thousand quivering doughboys, making the other “warriors” proud with their little prayers and their sobs.

I sat in a trench and I wrote you that letter, and I hope you enjoyed it. You’ll never know the trouble I went through to get it to you, because you’d have passed out from terror instead.

Mister Tidbits, I kill myself not because I am a coward but because I have no fear of death.

I have no fear of injury.

I have no fear of you.

Oh… I just checked the date. You didn’t get that letter yet.

My mistake. I lose track of time.

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