Photo by Alexander Zvir from Pexels
AT THE RISE
Center stage: A jail cell. CROCK alone, sitting on the bed, writing in a notebook.
CROCK
To himself, as he writes:
Goddammit.
I wish they never found my lethal injection.
How unfair of them.
People are queer.
Especially people who write.
Most especially people who write bucket lists.
On death row.
This is my Last Will and Testament.
I, David Matthew Crock, alias Crock Shit, alias Crock of Shit, or King of Shit,
being of sound mind (Ha! Ha!),
and acting under no duress other than having to sit here waiting for my executioners,
do hereby make and publish this as my final bucket list,
revoking any and all previous bucket lists heretofore by me made; namely:
My life’s purpose was to kill as many drug boys as I could.
And die for it, if I had to.
After getting at least twenty-one of them.
For one last meal. Monster’s Ball and all. And revenge.
What’s in a bucket list anyway?
Egotism.
Like flying a hot air balloon over the North Pole.
Or doing Carnival in Rio, wearing my favorite Argentine football jersey.
Or dancing Argentine tango with Kamala Harris.
Or visiting the Pope with Donald Trump.
Or climbing the Alps in a speedo.
Or bathing in Loch Ness.
Or Niagara Falls in a bathtub.
Or down Mt. Everest on a snowboard.
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