I Will Kill You
Don't be looking at me.
Don't be eying me. Don't be giving me the stink eye. Don't be thinking I don't see you. Don't be thinking you're sly. A sly eyed guy. Some kind of slickster. A sharp, eying people surreptitiously, stank as you want to be, never to be discovered.
It's not like that.
Let me give you a little clue. Let me clue you in. Take it as a letter. Take it as a threat. Take it as a promise. Take it to the bank. Take it, put it in a safe place, store it, bury it in a time capsule, have your great-grandkids dig it up a hundred years from now. Take this, in remembrance of me:
I will fucking kill you.
You think I'm playing. You think I'm joking. You think it's a comedy routine. You think I'm Eddie Murphy and you're Martin Lawrence and at the end of all this the whole crowd at The Apollo will stand up and cheer for both of us. You think it's some sort of metaphor, some sort of hint, a puzzle, a game, a literary sort of simile, a message in a bottle, a poem to be deciphered, a flowery descriptive figure of speech, just another thing that people say, not to be taken seriously, to be chuckled at, dismissed, brushed off, discarded, forgotten, interpreted in a way that renders it socially acceptable. All one big game.
That's not what I'm saying at all.
I'm not your friend. I'm not your pal. I'm not your happy backslappy bro, your comrade, your wingman, your sidekick, your homeboy, your brother from another mother. We're not related. We're barely acquaintances. You never gave me a kidney. You never gave me a hefty loan. You never gave my dead car battery a jump, or helped me move, or pulled a few strings to get me into college even after those unsavory incidents. You haven't really done anything for me. You haven't given me any compelling reason to like you. I don't owe you. You don't have any chits to call in. No chits at all.
Too bad for you.
Because what I'm saying to you is straightforward. It's simple, honest, direct. It's fundamental. It's admirably unadorned in a way that Hemingway could be proud of. It's impossible to misunderstand. Even a child could grasp its meaning. There's no mistaking the message. It's as clear as can be.
I will fucking kill you.
This isn't an invitation to participate in a discussion. This isn't an indication that I want to get to know more about you. This isn't some sort of tactic, a bargaining chip, a strategic move designed to provoke a certain chess-like response that will ultimately result in a settlement satisfactory to the both of us. This isn't going to be a story that we look back on one day and laugh. This isn't something that you'll be looking back on at all. This isn't an opportunity. This is a wall. A wall without a door. A wall that you're not going to climb. A simple, solid terminus past which you will never go. This is it.
It's over for you.
This is the end. Your time has come. It's a wrap. The clock has struck midnight. Time to go. Time to pack it all in. You've had a good run. You've lived quite a life. You've done this and that. You've loved, lost, and loved some more. You've accumulated quite a collection of memories about people, places, and things. Take a moment to reflect on them all. Allow the entire tableau of your time here on earth to flash before your eyes. Acquire a final, overwhelming sense of peace. Know that everything will be okay. Look into that approaching tunnel of light. Reach out your hand to Jesus. Be struck by the presence of god. Face your own mortality. Take it like a man. You have little choice, now. Might as well accept the way things are.
You dead.
