c. 2026 Rod Ice
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(3-26)
Forghan Maine had lived at Evergreen Estates for longer than any other resident in the park, except for the respected matron and widow, Maylene Jefka. As someone gifted with good genes and habits, he had outlived most of his own family. Including both parents, who immigrated from Canada. Along with a brother, sister, two nieces, a nephew, and his only child. It put him in the odd position of still representing his bloodline, while approaching the age of 90. Yet he was, by any measure, exhausted from this long journey. He did not enjoy witnessing the sunrise any longer. Or going to church on the hilltop, in his rural township. He had become a hermit in nearly every way. Getting groceries delivered, conferencing with doctors via his cellular phone, and leaving the household only if it became absolutely necessary. When those occasions arrived, he generally traveled in an ambulance, with an EMT crew. Something that brought him embarrassment and evoked a sense of regret.
Prostate issues kept him perpetually needing to relieve his bladder. So, he rarely traveled far from the community of mobile homes. He needed a rollator or walker just to get out of bed. His personal hygiene was difficult to maintain. His eyesight had failed, years before, which caused him to lose driving privileges. In modern times, he had a cranky disposition, which was opposite to the cheerful self of yonder days. He feared being a burden on those few, distant members of the family who had survived, so his social interactions were few. He made little attempt to keep any friends. There were no residents on his street even close to being so chronologically senior in age.
This situation made him wish to pass quietly, in his favorite recliner. Perhaps while watching reruns of television programs from the 50s or 60s, when he had been happier and more successful. Or, while listening to music on his Sears & Roebuck, Silvertone hi-fi. He had quite a collection of vintage vinyl, still on shelves around the living room. They kept the interior of his singlewide hovel smelling musty. Like an old bookstore. But this aroma gave him comfort. It was familiar, and reminded him of collecting records with his late wife.
The state of his health had been compromised by many issues. And yet, he persisted in living. A result of dietary discipline, exercise, and a genetic predisposition to longevity. This tilt seemed to mock him now, as an ironic twist on dying slowly. He wished to be done with the experience, of living, and set free from woes and cares. To be soaring toward the horizon and eternity, with an embrace of God awaiting. But it would not happen. Every morning had become a curse. Every waking moment reminded him of his own frailty. His isolation. His ineptitude. His numerous disabilities. Sometimes, he would ponder a line from Dark Shadows, which in his memory had been delivered by the actor Jonathan Frid, as Barnabas Collins, a vampire lost in his own damnation.
“To die, to be really dead. That would be wonderful...”
But on a Monday morning, peering through thick spectacles at the rectangular screen of his wireless device, he happened to discover a listing on an auction site. He had adapted to changing technologies more quickly than his contemporaries. A blessing that kept him scrolling through news stories and arcane reports with much curiosity. Someone had posted about a pistol made of composite materials, that could be purchased in a quasi-legal fashion, surreptitiously. A product of 3D printing. Useful for self-defense, and undetectable by most methods of scanning and surveillance. The item had been intended to bolster home arsenals and provide an extra layer of security, when desired. Yet for him, this tool of mayhem offered a different wrinkle on possessing a personal weapon.
Placed against his temple, after being loaded with ammunition, it could finally end the torment he suffered, throughout every day.
“The Titan Terminator 1500: Your guarantee of safe passage in any and every situation. Easy to procure, easy to handle. Inexpensive, innocuous, and deadly efficient. A firearm for the 21st Century. Light, accurate, and durable. Guaranteed satisfaction. A method for skirting local laws while staying alive.”
At first, the design appeared to be rather clumsy and unappealing. It did not quite look like any hand-held armament he had ever seen. The gun was blocky, square, and had rough edges from the way it had been produced. It looked like a college project, perhaps from a science class. But as weeks and months passed, he began to lust after the weapon. His trousers were routinely soaked with urine, even using adult undergarments for aid. He hobbled around his trailer aimlessly, with the jerky, painful motions of a hospice patient. A condition that sapped his humanity. He no longer felt like a genuine person. Instead, he existed only to be pitied, and ignored. Neighbors stayed away. Those passing his yard often averted their gaze, with disgust or sadness. He rarely looked in the mirror. What was reflected often brought him to tears. He had outlived his reason for life, itself. No cause to continue remained.
He wanted to pull the plastic trigger, and escape, peacefully.
Buying the TT 1500 proved to be frighteningly uncomplicated. A faux address and company name covered his tracks. He sent the money via a PayPal account, originally set up by his son. When the package arrived, it was left by a FedEx driver on his front porch. It took days to summon enough courage to open the brown box. Then, on an evening when he had experienced a coughing fit, and stumbled into the kitchen counter so forcefully that it bruised his ribs, he finally relented.
The gun looked ugly, yet fit neatly in his hand. He flipped it from left to right, carefully considering its heft and shape. The grip had sharp grooves and tingled his palm. He breathed heavily while sitting in the recliner. No note explaining his desperate act had been written, a detail he carelessly overlooked. This caused him to wonder about delaying his exit, at least for long enough to provide some details about what he hoped to achieve. But with a hint of gloom lingering, he guessed that it did not really matter. No one would care too much. His body would have to decay and stink, even to be noticed. By then, his soul would be at the point of some final judgment.
Good or bad, his fate was about to be decided.
After a short prayer, he lifted the pistol to his skull. Tears dribbled down his face. His chest heaved with sobbing. He whispered an apologetic greeting to his late wife and son, along with other relatives who had passed. The barrel of his composite weapon was cold and unforgiving. He pressed it hard, against his skin. And then tugged on the release.
“NOW, NOW, NOW! DO IT NOW! DO IT NOW! GOD HELP ME, I’VE HAD ENOUGH!”
There was no reaction from the mechanism. Nothing happened. Upon opening his eyes, he had expected to see God himself, sitting on a golden throne of grace. Or possibly, Satan with his flaming staff of death. Either way, it would end his sojourn. But that decisive moment did not come. Instead, he simply beheld stacked boxes from different storage units. Along with snack crumbs around his chair, dust on the shelves and entertainment center, and trash scattered around the room.
This failure left him trembling, and blubbering like a child. He was still alive! The weapon hadn’t misfired, it offered no response at all from his pull on the trigger. He had been cheated. Scammed. Robbed of his retirement funds. Sent back from the brink, to face yet another day in the isolated, Ohio residence park.
Hoodwinked, in a good way.
He mopped his face with a towel from the stove handle. But before returning to the recliner, there was a knock at the door. From across the street, a young woman had appeared, someone he barely knew. Plain, pretty, and tall. She had moved to the ramshackle village from deep in southern territory. Her cooking reminded him of church dinners, during his childhood. Occasionally, she gifted him with homemade potato salad, baked country ham, or biscuits and sausage gravy. But over the winter, they had been separated by the weather, and her own martial responsibilities.
“Hey old feller, y’all ain’t been outside since Christmas! I saw a guy from up the street brought ya cookies his wife made. And I’m sorry not ta have gotten over myself. But today, I wuz makin’ vegetable soup, and figured maybe y’all could use a warm up. Truth is, I been havin’ a hard time lately. My family is in Alabama, I don’t get ta see anybody. My husband works every day of the week, and he’s not much fun after that, all tired and sore. I’ve got the blues, and depression is a bitch! But ya remind me of folks down there. I need ta sit and chew the fat fer a spell. Will ya be my gramps, even fer one day? Say yes and I’ll bring some cornbread too, its fresh outta the oven. It’d mean a lot ta share yer company, right now. I need somebody...”
Maine could barely speak. He sniffled and wiped away tears, while attempting to hide the instrument of harm under his decorative towel. Embarrassment flushed his cheeks. He was jittery and ill at ease. But relieved not to be alone.
“Yes, yes of course, ma’am! To tell it straight, I need somebody too. You picked a good time to visit! Make yourself at home!”
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