I Write

They all sat a round table. Multiple bottles of liquor sat in the middle, surrounded by prescription bottles. Cigar smoke fills the small room, a single light hangs from the ceiling. A Smith and Wesson sat in front of one of the boys. Nobody here and any sort of nerves about them. Just drinking, and popping, and a game. The kid took the revolver, broke it, and loaded one round. A single slug. He closed it back together and spun the chambers. The rapid clicks eventually slowed to a stop. With the barrel already at his temple, he pulls the trigger as soon as the barrels stopped. Click. He puts the revolver down, grabs a couple pills from whatever was in front of him, and turned a bottle of vodka upside down. You’d think it’s water the way he guzzled it. He slammed down the bottle with a satisfied sigh. He slid the gun to his side, to the other kid. He picked up the revolver and put it to his head, and squeezed. Click. He took some pills and downed some booze as well, while passing the pistol over. This kid, picked up the gun, broke it, and added another round in the chambers. Closed, and spun it. He held it to his head and waited for the clicking to stop. When it did, he pulled the trigger. Click. He passed the gun and started drinking. Without a moment of hesitation, the next boy puts it to his temple and pulls the trigger. BOOM! All the contents of his head sprayed on the wall, and his homie to the side of him, as his body slid out the chair and flops on the floor. Not even wiping the blood and brains off his face, he took the gun from his friends still warm hand. He broke it open, removed the spent cartridge, and loaded two fresh rounds. He set the gun down so he could wipe his lips with his sleeve, and turned a bottle of bourbon upside down and killed the whole bottle. He smashed the empty bottle against the wall. I guess just to hear it break. He picked the gun up and spun the chambers. The rapid clicks slowed, and he pulled the trigger. Click. He sat down and passed the gun back around. Back to the start. No hesitation. He picked up the pistol and pulled the trigger. BOOOM! Another mist of blood and brain matter. Completely stone-faced, the one next in line picked up the pistol and replaced the spent cartridge. Spun the chambers, took a couple shots, and with a cigar in his mouth, put the barrel to his temple and pulled the trigger. Click. He tossed the gun across the table to the only other one left, while he tried to down the rest of the vodka. The gun was picked up, and the barrels spun again. While waiting for them to stop, he stood up, and he drank some more and took the rest of whatever was in the bottle in front of him. He had just swallowed the rest of the pills when he put the barrel under his chin and pulled the trigger. BOOM! The force pushed his headless body against the wall, and slid down it, leaving a smear of blood on the wall. The sole survivor stumbled over the bodies to the gun. Picked it up, and removed the spent cartridge. This time, he filled every chamber with a live round. Spun the barrels, and put the gun to his head. He stumbled backwards, and tripped over a body, pulling the trigger at the same time. The combination of the gun blast and tripping caused his corpse to land in a twisted pose. The ceiling light flickers.