June 1, 1998
3:07 AM
Mortimer Adkins steered his '87 Buick Park Avenue onto the dimly lit Walmart parking lot right around 3:15 in the morning with retribution on his mind, contempt in his heart, and 387 feet of nylon rope coiled in his trunk.
His Check Engine light was on.
Probably a fucking sensor. Hundred bucks for a diagnostic charge, plus the hassle. If it's not one goddamn thing, it's another. Clenching his fists, he eased into the spot he'd chosen beside a concrete light pole. In the cool night air, the fluorescent lights above him swarmed with nocturnal insects. He could've taken the easy way out and just sold his soul, like in those old black-and-white TV shows. Instead, he'd brought rope, rigged the end with high tensile baling wire, and fashioned a barbed noose that would've made the toughest outlaw in the west hesitate.
Throat tight, he swallowed hard.
Necktie party for one.
Under the glow of the streetlamp, he fastened one end around the pole with scout knots and a grappling hook, fed the other through the steering wheel, and took a final, somber look at the empty lot. He climbed back in his car, and thunked the door shut like a coffin lid.
He pictured his once-loyal customers, now vultures picking apart his legacy, circling for scraps, pestering him with questions, then driving way out here to save a buck. They competed for parking spots, rammed carts through narrow aisles chasing privileges and possessions that never brought true happiness. The Adkins' name...trashed. The newspaper headline flashed before his eyes: Local Business Owner Loses His Marbles, Then His Head.
His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat.
With the rearview mirror adjusted, he shifted into drive and stomped on the gas. The Park Avenue lurched forward, fishtailing briefly, headlights bouncing over potholes and faded parking lines.
Glass exploded inward, shards spinning through the air like ticker tape as the car plowed through soda machines, a DVD kiosk, and a claw game. Shopping carts crumpled and twisted. Tables displaying 'Prices Slashed' signs buckled under their weight.
The car shuddered to a stop, steam hissing from the mangled hood, the air a sickly-sweet mix of radiator coolant and high-mileage motor oil.
Nothing moved.
At 3:15 a.m., surrounded by crushed boxes of Swiss Cake Rolls, Ding-Dongs, and cream-filled Twinkies, Mortimer Adkins punched his ticket to the afterlife.