One Shot With Split Wine

It's funny, you know. One shot and the whole town goes ballistic. There'd be two sides fighting for headless corpses, for goddamn rights, and one would support the deeds I've done. I look for the brains, not the guts. I shoot for once, and either suicide after or give my life away to those who don't deserve life but deserve something less, like their lies.

It's funny, really. You have one shot and you're so determined for it, to murder as many people as it takes to feed greed, to feed the public, the media. So really, I'm helping. I'm letting this world eat at and pick at scavenged details for their fucking money as well. I'm giving them jobs, I'm setting them a new day and a new dawn for lust.

It's funny, really, it always is.

I'll be standing on a roof, leaning on metal, and I'll see worshippers, I'll see hatred, I'll see mirrors of me, of the disaster waiting to happen, for the blood to spill.

I'll be dying to know if I'll hit the right nerve, I'll be dying to know if I used my lucky bullet, or if I even rounded the right piercers.

I'd be running through shots of pumps, the stress, the butterflies, and then I'll trigger my vessels, I'll trigger the smoke of something I can't take back even though I don't feel remorse, I don't feel the wind.

It's a blast, really. And I wouldn't take it back even if I write this on my death bed. I wouldn't take back what I've done, I've saved thousands and a future, I've saved myself the legend for when I return in a new stone, a new generation. I'll see the same deeds I've done, I'll see triumphs, but with this, I left a mark on the world, so I'll leave my mark on this wall. And with this, let's cheers to this one shot and spilt wine.