"The Delegation of Joe Andes"
Joe Andes had had enough.
His wife hated him. Secretly, but not secretly enough. His dying mother smiled through the guilt of needing his help, while he silently cursed her for still breathing. He’d just lost the job he hated anyway. One last unpaid electric bill away from sleeping in the car.
“Fuck it,” Joe said aloud, staring at his reflection in the TV screen. “I’m done.”
Problem was, Joe wasn’t cut out for suicide. He got lightheaded giving blood. The idea of a syringe made his hands tremble. And sticking a gun in his mouth? Forget it—he gagged brushing his molars.
Then it hit him. A bolt of bad inspiration.
“Suicide by cop! Ha! I’ll have someone do the dirty work for me... and take the police force down a peg, haha!”
He grabbed his stepson’s old pellet pistol. Peeled off the little red safety sticker, the one that screamed fake from a distance. Now it looked real enough. Real enough to get a bullet in the chest.
And with that, Joe hit the gas and gunned it down I-65.
Didn’t take long. Flashing lights. Sirens. Show time.
He slammed the brakes and jumped out of the car, waving the fake gun around like a man with nothing left to lose.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
“OK, assholes!” Joe screamed. “I got thirty-five bullets! How many of you pigs can I plug before you get me?! Here I come motherf—”
“FREEZE! DROP THAT FUCKING WEAPON! DROP THAT GODDAMN WEAPON NOW!”
Joe blinked. Confused.
“Are you fucking stupid?” he muttered, raising the fake pistol.
Still, no shots.
The lead officer didn’t even flinch. “Yeah, nice try, asshole. I’ll be goddamned if another idiot gets my officers to do the shit they can’t. Nelson?”
“Yes, Chief?”
“Tase this cocksucker into oblivion and put him in my car.”
BZZZZZZZT. Joe went stiff, then limp.
Processing. Mugshots. Concrete walls and buzzing lights.
Joe was officially a ward of the state.
“Your new home,” the guard said, pushing him into a cell.
A man turned from his bunk. Shaved head. Scar on his neck shaped like a smile.
“The name’s Nine Inch Ned. You?”
“Hey, I’m Joe. You like Nine Inch Nails?” Joe asked, hoping humor might keep his teeth in his mouth.
“The fuck you talking ‘bout, boy?”
“Your name. I figured you liked the band.”
“That’s not why they call me that, boy…”
Joe hesitated. But curiosity was stronger than fear. “How’d you get the name—?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
Two shadows filled the doorway. Ned’s crew. Big, breathing bad news.
“Heard you tried to get the cops to kill you,” one said. “We’re here to make you wish you were dead.”
Joe slumped. “But I already wanted to die…”
Ned smiled wide. “And now you will. But not before my buddies pass you around a while. Then I’ll make sure to shiv you in the shower. When’s your birthday, Joe?”
That night, Joe went to bed, but he wasn’t alone.
Ned. All nine inches of him.
And the boys.
“Ready to play a game of Hide the Sausage?!”
Joe was tackled. Violated. Stabbed. Bled out on cold tile.
In the end, his plan kinda worked.
His wife got the insurance money.
His mother cried at the funeral, then quietly exhaled.
The state was down one useless inmate.
Joe just wanted to go out on his own terms.
Unfortunately… he decided to delegate.
