bastards

He didn't know if the ones banging on the door were banging for help, or banging for his blood.
It didn't matter.
He hated them equally.
He didn't see a difference in any of the poor fuckers.
He's always hated them.

His thinking tended to lean more toward the offensive in nature.
Everyone, including himself knew he was a complete bastard.

Now he's stuck in a bar with lukewarm beer, waiting out the inevitable.
He would die with a beer in one hand and a gun in the other.

"They can all eat shit. The mexicans, the blacks, the queers...all of em." he said aloud while pulling heavily on the black sludge in his glass.
"I got all I need."

He'd been bitten.
He knew what lay ahead.
Unavoidable truth.
For the first time this was in his head.
Truth.

He'd wanted something to change. No big government. Nobody in his business.
Now there's nothing.
Not another living soul to help him.
Alone.

"We all die alone." he groaned. Sipping again from the pint.
This would be especially painful.
The things he did care about were no where to be found, minus the glass and a gun.

Could he pull the trigger when it came to?
With all of his talk, could he really do it?

"Let the bastards rot."

The screams from the door grew in fevered howling.
He could hear the pleading.
He didn't care.
"Fucking towel heads deserve it." he coughed between the blood.

If he was going to die, or not, he wasn't going it alone.
The bastards were going down too.

For the first time fear hit him.
A bullet to the head, or that.

He wanted to live on.
Even like that.

He wouldn't change, nothing had ever changed him, and it damn well wasn't going to start now.

The poor bastard.