by T.L. Murphy
I should have known. After five beers, the dark secrets started pouring out: the needles, the scams, the sly way he made fear so hilarious. He’d line up his dead soldiers and say, pop, pop, pop.
You told yourself, he wouldn’t be around for long, yet there he is, still grinning out of Facebook, like it’s a joke.
Everyone saw it coming, we just thought car wreck. It should matter, but it doesn’t matter, how a man dies. He dies. And you’re left staring at the place he used to sit, thinking how easy it is to fool everyone.