By Timothy Lantz

Jeremy was a complete and utter fuck of a person. In fact, he had no redeeming qualities. He was a liar, a cheat, a thief and a junkie. Once, he even beat a girl carrying his child so severely that she had a miscarriage and then he left her lying in the street. It was for no other reason than simply because he could.

Perhaps that's why the thought of running never occurred to him. He knew his own life simply wasn't worth saving. He had spent the last twenty-seven years wasting his existence, so why not let it end now?

As he sat on the barstool drinking down the last of his beer, he found it amazing that it had taken this long for someone to finally kill him.

The clock above the bar flashed 10:25.

"Almost time," he said to no one in particular.

The bartender gave him a look, if only to see if he needed a refill.

"Naw," he said as he shook his head. "I'm good."

The word "good" suddenly struck him as funny and he let a smile cross his lips. He had never been good his whole life, or had he? Surely there must have been one point, one moment before he had picked the wrong path. If there was though he couldn't remember it.

At 10:30, two well-dressed men approached the bar. They didn't say a word; yet, Jeremy knew it was time to go.

He threw down a couple of ones to pay for the beer, then thinking the better of it, he threw all the money in his wallet down as well. He wouldn't be needing it anymore.

He walked slowly, escorted by the two men. They turned the corner and entered the alley behind the bar, before anyone spoke.

"Where do you want it kid?"

Jeremy thought for a moment. "Back a the head I guess, I don' wanna see it commin'."

The man placed his hand on Jeremy's shoulder and leaned his weight down, forcing him to kneel.

When he could feel the hard metal press against the back of his skull, his mind began to race. He could see every moment of his life passing before his eyes. Every misdeed, every con and swindle, every wrong step all played out like some bad television show, until finally he remembered.

He was in first grade. The teacher had given him the task of passing out art supplies. There was only one rule.

"Don't run with the scissors."

He ran.