The Death of Mickey

Mickey's day had gone from bad to worse. He had woken up with a terrible cold; a film of slime two millimeters thick coating his pallet. He called into work, where his boss told him he had "had enough of your faking ass. Don't bother coming back in; your last paycheck is in the mail." He needed to pay his rent; rent which was already late. Mickey had gone to the bank to withdraw what little money he had left. And now Mickey was being held hostage, along with a host of other bank patrons and employees. Mickey was not happy. The heist was being orchestrated by a lone gunman out for what Mickey assumed was a straight forward bank robbery. Mickey wished he had the thief's go-get-em attitude. Mickey wished he could solve all of his problems with a gun and a ski-mask. Mickey sneezed. "You! Sick guy! Get over here!" Mickey wished he wasn't sick. Mickey approached his captor, taking careful deliberate steps. "That's close enough!" Mickey stopped. "This is to show everyone I mean business!" The man aimed his gun at Mickey, and fired. Mickey didn't register the pain. In fact, Mickey didn't register much of anything except a deep feeling of disgust...disgust at himself. Mickey shouldn't have been sick, fired, or late with rent money. Mickey shouldn't have been shot. Mickey shouldn't be dying. Mickey is better than all of that. It was time for Mickey to take control of his life. Mickey lunged towards the gunman, tackling him to the ground. The man managed to shoot another round into Mickey's shoulder; Mickey didn't notice it either. Mickey began to beat the man; beat everything he hated about himself. He pounded the man's face until the ski mask turned from dry and scratchy to damp and spongy. The man was screaming something, but Mickey wasn't paying much attention to that. Mickey stopped punching, and stood up. The small-time bank robber was blubbering something, but made no attempt to take back control of the situation. Mickey looked down at his feet; the man's gun was only a couple steps away. Mickey bent over, and untied his shoelaces. He removed his shoes, and proceeded to beat the man further; like a crazed arachnophobe trying to kill a spider. After a few more minutes, Mickey had tired himself out; maybe it was because he was sick. Mickey decided it was time to finish his old self off. He calmly put his shoes back on, walked over to the welcome mat and wiped the blood off his soles before walking back to pick up his new gun. Mickey toted the gun in his hand; it felt right. Mickey aimed the weapon at his old self. Miraculously, his old self was still conscious, and begged Mickey to spare him; that he was sorry and that he would never do anything bad again. Mickey knew it was a lie. He had to beat this notion out of himself, so he bent over and crushed his skull in with the butt of his pistol. His old body laid there, convulsing. Mickey aimed his gun and emptied the remaining clip into himself. He stopped moving. Mickey was dead. Mickey was born anew. He looked down at his two gunshot wounds; he should probably get those looked at. Mickey pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911. He told the operator that he had hurt himself in an accident at the bank and that he needed an ambulance as soon as possible. He also needed a body bag for a miserable nobody.