Every day after work, I go to the shady side of town and call over a prostitute. I fuck her against a grimy brick wall and give her my day's pay, then I go home and kiss my wife. After she goes to bed, I take a pill short of the lethal dosage of Prozac and spin the chamber of my gun. I walk out to the garage, you see, with my wrinkled suit and muddy shoes, and I pull the trigger. One of these days my brains will splatter across the black land rover that sits among the boxes and tools and sawdust, and I'll finally go to hell. If God grants me any mercy, that day will be tomorrow.