Jack Tait is still alive.

Jack Tait is worried.  death is coming and he knows he cannot avoid it any longer.  as much as he hates people he loves life.  loves it’s ups.  loves it’s downs.  but he will soon be dead and this makes him think.  he thinks of all the lonely boring people trying to follow rules that get them nowhere.  lost and dull.  sad and pathetic.  desperate and broke.  the puppets of the world make Jack chuckle.  but Jack is still afraid.  he once had two balls and a big dick.  now he has one lonely ball and a shrivelled up dick.  he still jerks off five times a day but even that is becoming harder.  he sees young hairless kids running around and in love and he laughs.  then he cries as he drinks a sixty of Jack and looks at old pictures of his Dad and Mom.  his Dad died long ago.  so did his friend Gary.  also his friend Troy.  he sees kids with diseases and old fucked up monsters who live until the age of ninety-eight.  never any logic.  nothing makes sense.  there is no god.  nor is their a heaven.  life is filled with maggots.  but it’s also filled with lovely people who would do anything to help a friend or a stranger.  life continues on for poor old Jack.  he now walks alone.  he now lives alone.  he now drinks alone.  everything is alone.  everyone is alone.  lonely people and lonely lives.  then comes a quiet knock on Jack’s lonely door.  he drunkenly gets up off of the shitty purple reclining chair with holes in it and stumbles towards the quiet sound.  he fiddles with the door handle but manages to twist the knob enough to open the door and standing in front of him is a quiet and meek little boy.  lost.  bleeding.    bleeding knuckles and bleeding ear.  his hair is dirty blonde.  there is a staredown.  Jack feels sorry for the little boy.  “Are you okay little boy?”  the little boy didn’t answer back.  “Are you okay?”  nothing.  silence.  blood.  Jack burps and then pulls the boy inside.  he grabs what little toilet paper he has and wipes the boy clean.  he offers the boy a beer but the boy shakes his head indicating “NO.”  Jack then offers him a chocolate bar.  the boy smiles and is missing four teeth.  Jack wonders what happened to the little boy but he wouldn’t speak.
  BANG.  BANG.  BANG.  BANG.  BANG.  BANG.  BANG.  BANG.  BANG.  BANG.  Jack jumps.  “WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING OUT THERE LITTLE BOY???”  the little boy smiles.  Jack immediately goes to his cupboard and pulls out another sixty of Jack and chugs.  he also grabs his baseball bat.  “I WILL FUCKING SMASH ALL OF YOUR FUCKING FACES IN YOU DULL AND TWISTED BASTARDS!!!”  the little boy begins to laugh.  a silent laugh.  more knocking.  more banging.  more laughing.  more screaming.  Jack is drunk.  Jack is scared.  Jack is old.  but Jack is angry.  anger always trumping every other emotion.  Jack asks the boy one last time if he was okay but again the boy smiles but does not say a word.  Jack immediately begins smashing his face in with the baseball bat.  one big swing after another.  blood everywhere.  and everywhere.  and everywhere.  boy still silent.  laughing but silent.  Jack is sweating.  scared.  tired.  drunk.  with one last baseball swing of the baseball bat Jack kills the little boy.  real silence.  Jack sits still.  drunk.  tired.  confused.  “knock.  knock.  knock.”  the door has a knock.  Jack stumbles once again to the door.  he once again twists the knob and once again opens the door.  NOTHING.  Jack walks outside and takes a piss and then comes back inside.  he sees the dead little boy filled with blood on the floor and goes to bed.  six hours later he wakes up.  he stumbles once again to the front door and once again opens the door.  he once again takes a piss and once again comes back inside.  he is hungover and horny and knows that he will jerk off five times later that day.  he then remembers that he killed the little boy with the big grin who wouldn’t speak.  he searches all over his shitty farmhouse in the middle of nowhere but sees nothing but some bloody toilet paper and a bloody bat.  no body.  no clothes.  guilt sets in as do the fears.  Jack looks out of the window in the front of his shitty house but sees nothing.  barren and cold.  Jack returns to his purple reclining chair and jerks off for the first time that day.  he then sits in guilt.  all day.  all night.  all week.  all month.  all year.  all of his fucking life.  FUCKING GUILT.  he then wonders if he killed the little boy or if there was even a little boy at all.  Jack grabs his sixty of Jack and drinks.  still naked.  still alone.  still old.  still one nut.  still sad.  still scared.  still alive.
  Jack Tait is real.