Date: May 19th, 2015 9:08 AM
Author: vigorous maize codepig church
Every night you close up shop; jacket pulled tight; walk the five blocks to the nearest range; the target is painted with your lead; center mass; head; dead. You take home the target paper, breathe in the smell; singe, smoke, crinkled memories of hell. Workout now, hours on end; bringing strength toward the purest objective. You're alone but together with all those before; know what you must do; to live time immemorial in the pages of history. This will be your calling card; your red night holy hour; turning the eyes of the world to you. Creeps everywhere. Burning down the barn door, trying to get it. Smash hand dead head making the sound stop for an hour's rest; enough to restart the cycle. Up again. Push-ups against the gritfloor. Fuck them all. Range again tonight; another practice run. Gathering the supplies. Living life.