It'll be my turn next, W. says. They're already coming to get me. The cursor, on someone's monitor, is already hovering over my name. I've already appeared on somebody's list. Jobs at risk. Jobs to be placed at risk.
Yes, they're coming to get me. They've already set out, from the other side of the universe. The appointment has been made. Two bumbling agents will take me to a gravel pit and shoot me. Two incompetents, unsure of their orders, unsure of what I've done will be sent to shoot a bullet into the back of my head.
He knows I'll be glad of it, W. says. He knows me too well. The Romans didn't open their own veins when they wanted to die, but asked someone else to do it. And isn't that what I've been asking, and for many years: someone else to do it? It's what I want. It's what I crave … a firing squad. A night arrest. To be led to a gravel pit and be popped in the head …
'You want them to come', W. says. 'You want to feel important'. Important enough to appear on someone's list. Important enough to arrest, to take to a gravel pit and shoot. – 'This mad world was made for you', W. says.
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