THE STORY
I died.
On my way to the afterlife I dreamed. My dreams were neither surreal nor enlightening.
First, I dreamed of Sandy. She was dancing, but I was the only one in the room. Only it wasn’t a room, it was like some kind of cloud high above the sky.
Then I dreamed of Anne. I dreamed she had finished her schooling, gotten a high paying job, and married a handsome young man, eventually beginning a family of her own. Even in my dream I wasn’t a part of her life, but I felt consolation knowing that she had grown up to be a strong, independent woman without my intervention. It was enough to know she was happy.
I also dreamed of Peter Poppins, the only guy in the world to put up with my shit complaining. I guess that’s what he was paid to do. Still, he did it with a smile. In my dream he was surrounded by dozens of beautiful women, somehow maintaining a different conversation with all of them. Confidence and charm poured out of him. As I watched him, I became him, and slowly the women disappeared until there was only me.
I dreamed of all my old friends. Friends from the police force, from college, even childhood friends, they were all there. I suspect they were all saying their goodbyes. I don’t remember much about them other than their passing faces morphing into each other.
Interspersed between these dreams were flashes of light and images of Jennifer. She wasn’t in her costume though, not in my ratty old clothes either. She was wearing normal clothes, a blouse and jeans. She looked much younger than she actually was.
I suspected that I was trapped in purgatory and feared that I would know no eternal rest.
But you don’t really care about any of that, do you?
When I awoke, Jennifer was at my side. Her left arm was in a sling. I had been in a coma for the last week. She told the hospital that she was my daughter, so they let her stay. It was sweet of her.
I did die, though. For six and a half minutes I was flat lined. I had actually been shot in four separate places, only one bullet hitting a vital artery (it missed my heart by centimeters). One other bullet stuck inside my stomach, one in my leg, and the last one, the ricochet, took my right ear with it. I’m still deaf in that ear.
I don’t remember being shot that many times, but the wounds don’t lie. Sandy was unscratched, thank god. The police showed up minutes after I emptied my gun. They shot the guy who broke Jennifer’s arm. I missed every single shot I took. At least I didn’t hit Jennifer.
There was a big media circus surrounding the whole event. Jennifer and her friends were all taken into custody. I don’t think they were charged with anything, I didn’t really keep up with what happened to those fucks. Once I came out of my coma, they corroborated their stories with mine. Internal Affairs had been investigating Kosloski and his friends for some time. The information that Jennifer’s friends had, along with the evidence I had linking Kosloski to Gurly, finally put him in the shit. And there was no getting out of it.
Long story short, he’s in prison, I lost my detective license as well as my gun license, and Jennifer is back in New York City. I still get letters from her. We keep in touch. She’s doing well.
So that’s the story, at least as well as I remember it. I’m sure you just going to focus on the gangsters and the costumed idiots, what little there was of them. I’m sorry I wasn’t more a part of that.
Yes, I still see Sandy. No, I haven’t talked to my daughter, but that’s not really any of your business so fuck you for asking. I offered to sell you the story of what happened those few days, not my entire life. As if your readers cared about a retired old fuck like me.
You’re just going to make up whatever fucking ending you want anyway.
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