John had been out in the frigid December wind all day, in the dirt, slaving for the scraps of his lost ambition. He’s alone most of his days at work – allowing for him he would take little sips of whiskey from a flask. Everyone at his work knows he has been drowning his sins and wishing for a redo on this whole life thing.

John’s supervisor let him off early because he has been staying late for over a month now, and deservedly so, because, despite his drinking he is the hardest working person at his job.

After punching out of work, he stopped by the grocery store to pick up some things and decided to pick up some flowers for his wife and a little more whiskey. The reason he grabbed some roses was two-fold: he wanted to make up for not spending time with her recently and he also felt the pain in his testicles from not having sex in a very long time. “Everyone needs a little lovin’ now and again, and flowers have always done the trick.” He mumbled out loud as he scanned the bouquet at the self-checkout.

With his hands full, he struggled to open the door. Through the paper-thin walls, he heard the radio blasting along with other indistinguishable noises from their studio apartment. As he turned the door knob, the keys jingled like Santa’s sleigh, and sounds of rapid movement came from the bedroom/kitchen. He opened up the door to a find a naked young man with a sheepish look on his face. The flowers dropped to the floor.

Cut to the scene at hand:

John has a .38 special revolver to a young man’s head. The kid is, butt naked, bleeding from the mouth and whimpering while John’s wife, Sharon, has the maroon blanket up to her neck, shuttering in fear and begging for her boy toy’s life to be spared. John asks her if he was good in bed. He almost loses his voice screaming, “Were you thoroughly fucked?” She is aghast and utterly helpless. The sound of a hammer clicking back validates the threat and the youthful man begins to weep. John’s tendons in his index finger tighten as he prepares to end this this boy’s life.  As a final breath is exhaled a song comes on the radio and all motion comes to a halt.

Never made it as a wise man

I couldn’t cut it as a poor man stealing

Tired of living like a blind man

I’m sick of sight without a sense of feeling

And this is how you remind me…

John’s contempt for his wife’s lover dangles in limbo for a moment as the music registers. He remembers back to the pre-IPod-days when he bought a $15 Nickelback CD that he ended up throwing out the window, on the highway, halfway home, because he was nauseous from the boredom of “Never Again”. He shakes off the years of malcontent over poorly delivered riffs and tries to focus on the task at hand.

In a desperate attempt to bide some time the naked man blurts out, “Wait…Wait!

John gives pause and says, “What?”

With a bubble of snot coming out of his nose, the kid asks, “If I have to die for fucking your wife can it at least be to a better song than this shit?”

Lowering the gun a little from the shock of the question, he says, “Yeah, we can wait.”

There is a lull in the song and John hears from behind him, “I’m sorry” in that angelic voice he loves so much. And with that apology comes another verse through the speakers.

It’s not like you to say sorry

I was waiting on a different story

This time I’m mistaken

For handing you a heart worth breaking

And I’ve been wrong, I’ve been down

Been to the bottom of every bottle

These five words in my head

Scream, “Are we having fun yet?”

John lowers the gun to his side as Chad Kroger’s harrowing lyrics tell a tale of confusion in a violently pastel tone that hits a nerve. Infidelity doesn’t seem so bad in the wake of such unsatisfactory lyrics. He decides that there are worse things than death and if the young man can see this in the moments before his life ends then so should he.

John asks the kid how old he is.

“19…yesterday” he rattles off in uncertainty as to what is going on.

John tells him to get up and go home. Stammering from shock, the birthday boy grumbles some unintelligible gibberish and jumps to his feet. The pitter-patter of feet is all they see as he runs like the wind, leaving his wallet and keys on the dresser.

John sits down on the corner of the bed and rests his face in his sweaty palms. He knows what led to this situation: It’s his drinking. All he ever does anymore is swim through bottles of Kentucky Deluxe and think about work. He ignores her all the time. She has unmet needs that will have to be addressed in the coming hours, days, and years. And he knows what he will have to do. His failure reflects light onto his self-worth like a full moon in December illuminates a frozen corpse in a public park as a young man runs by, stark naked, and thankful for a every Nickelback song, ever.

The End… Well, not really, because the loathing of Nickelback’s music will continue a heroic journey of saving lives long after we are all gone.