text: It was a gunshot. Probably. It probably was a gunshot. Look, I want to be up-front about this, but the truth is that I am a liar; I lie about stuff like this all the time. But seriously though, this time I am telling the truth. I mean, like, fuck Epimenides--he was probably a great guy, but I mean damn... It was a gunshot. Probably. A weighted hammer cocked back with priming pin content on making it to first base with the back-end of a hollow point; a hollow point extending its business card into... Fuck. It was a gunshot. What did you expect? Fluffy bunnies and pancakes? Raindrops on roses and such? It ain’t exactly the sound of music now is it? And I am not lying either. Who’d lie about something like this? A gunshot? Probably was. I mean, it might as well have been. Blood never had an attractive state: doesn’t look good, doesn’t smell great, doesn’t feel particularly grand either--especially if it’s yours. I mean, your own. I mean, curb the second-person bullshit for a moment and go first person in someone else’s shoes. Tastes even worse. I ain’t a liar. Nope. Well, I mean I am. But not this time. It was a gunshot. A knife wound. A hack-saw to the calcium cupcake. Fuck. “The things we do to ourselves.” “The things we do to each-other.” “The things we do to each-other, without even knowing.” “The things we do to each-other, without ever knowing.” I’m not a liar. Typically. I mean, I guess I technically am. But... I’m not lying. It was a gunshot. I mean, it hurt. A lot.