He sat there in the post office parking lot, hyperventilating as he clutched his glock. Come on now. This is your big day, buddy. The bang you've been wanting to go out on since you turned 13, 38 years in the making. Your wife's a nasty whore who's sucked every cock in town. Your son's a blown-out fag who wants to beat her high score. Your daughter thinks she's going to be some backassedwards feminist parody of Hitler but the stupid little twat couldn't dictate her way out of a wet paper bag. What've you got to lose at this point?
All the lockers you've been shoved in. All the times women laughed at your attempts at wooing them or at your dick when you thought you succeeded. Every asshole boss you've ever worked for. All the promotions you've never gotten. Was it all for nothing? Are you just gonna let them all win? Let them be proven right about how much of a spineless little pussy you are? No? Then what's the holdup?
He picks up the handle of Johnnie Walker he brought along and chugs a fourth of it. Black label. You're fixing to shoot up the shithole you work at, to decorate the walls with your skull and brain matter and you couldn't even spring for Blue Label? God, you're pathetic. Bet you won't even hit 3 of the niggers by the time the pigs show up. Just a complete limpdick sack of shit through and through.
After dragging his heels for the better part of 2 hours, he finally steps out of the USPS truck, fiddling with his gun like some stimming autist. They won't be laughing now, he thinks, beads of sweat dripping down his bald skull, square rim glasses fogging over with lustful anticipation of the carnage to come. Mine is the power, and mine is the glory- He just about creams his crusty skidmarked tighty whities at the thought.
But no. Tough luck, faggot!
To his dismay, to his utter shock, the new kid beat him to it. Everyone's already dead. Nigger coworkers full of bulletholes. Old fogeys blasted away while mailing shit to their families. Even a couple of kids. Blood, piss, shit, puke, just a total expulsion of bodily fluids all over the place. Once a cuck, always a cuck, eh? Couldn't even beat some sorry 25 year old fatso to the punch. He brought a rifle too, not like you, with that sorry little pea shooter. And here you are, falling to your knees sobbing like the fat ugly girl no one wants on prom night. That's what you get for being such a bitch about it after jacking off to the thought for months.
Suddenly the tears dry up. A mad stroke of inspiration comes. The cops aren't here yet. There's still time. I can still get even. Had his coworkers been alive, they'd have collectively said "nigger, please". But no. Even they'd have no idea what he had in mind at this late hour. None of them could comprehend the workings of a middle-aged mind so utterly warped by decades of complete and utter failure.
In an uncharacteristic display of physical prowess, he picks up the tubby fucker's corpse and carries this cranially ventilated, yet blushing, bride across the threshold into his postal truck. After driving to a sufficiently isolated spot he undoes the dead fatass's belt, pulls down his pants, and penetrates the virgin corpse anus. Even he's surprised by how hard he is. Has he gone gay out of insanity? How else would one explain this sudden bout of homosexual necrophilia?
But no. You see in his so very, very bald and horridly middle-aged egghead, the rusty gears have turned, determining this to be the only form of consolation, the sole form of vengeance afforded to one so mercilessly cucked even out of his final act of retribution. Perhaps thinking himself a Roman of old, he decided that punitive anal rape would correct the karmic record; after all, if a cuck turns around and rapes his bull can he really still be called a cuck? To him, at least, this made sense enough. Every thrust fills the truck with the odor of pigshit and rotted offal, but he soldiers on, until eventually filling the deceased orifice with the final spurt of his failed seed.
There's not much else to do after such a deed. All he can really think of to further tarnish the lad's reputation is to commit a mock lover's suicide with his body. So he takes the highway to the nearest bridge and gains enough speed to clear the barricade at the edge. As they fell into the sea, bald cucked Thelma and dead fat Louise, he wished to become a hurricane if he should ever exist again in any form, so he could at least kill and die with some degree of dignity he'd never been afforded in this lifetime.
As in life, in death too no one would particularly remember or care about him, except to briefly mention that he was the culprit's gay lover on the occasional YouTube True Crime video, interspersed with 20 AI-generated Temu ads.
