THE RUSHING GENERA BEDTIME STORY
Buckley wanted to shoot people. And shoot people, he did. He let people know, sometimes he didn't tell anyone at all. He took all of his bottled-up feelings, all of his repressed self-hatred and desire and emptiness passed onto him from his charred entities he called "ehpehrehnts," packed them into a gun, and deluded himself into thinking that happiness was a warm gun. He stuck that gun everywhere he could, poking them in other people's business, and he deluded himself into thinking he was justified, that he was a businessman in his charity shop business suit (he never even wore a tie! what kind of businessman is that?). He was all business, alright-- except when the blood pumped faster through him. That's when he got trigger happy. One day he shot a defenseless friend and told the world as if it were just another act of business. They saw his blood boil. They told him through the interpretative grapevine that he had caused shame. He obliviously saw it as temptation. A businessman, after all, has no responsibility in such an assassination! A businessman feels no shame for an act of business. A businessman is only tempted to shoot, the victim of higher powers. The gunman is the victim. Hahaha.
Until the day came that he had shot everyone, and everyone was dead. He was the only one left. He didn't want this. He only wanted people to be impressed. He thought his skills with his gun would get him acceptance. The truth is he never learned to accept himself. In the post-crime panic that flooded his senses, he desperately sought to rebuild the world from ground up. That even worked, because he is a better hod-carrier than a businessman. But it was only after seeing his hard work pay off, after seeing the new world rise up with him, that he started to understand why this rebirth was resonating with him so strongly: He could only rise up if he had first fallen. And fallen, he had done. His blood started to boil in an entirely different manner. He was never the victim of temptation. He was the master of it. He had brought shame to the old world. He had shot everyone he knew, everyone who had so much as glanced at him. He was responsible.
And for the first time in his life, he genuinely felt ashamed of himself with nowhere to hide from such feelings, nowhere to misdirect. He had fucked up. All over his friends.
Only now could he truly rebuild what he had so selfishly destroyed.
Happy birthday to him. (What's the plassword?)
