The Axeman
I had a dream recently where I was the axeman for two senior executives at a fortune 500 company, a henchman who always said “yes,” a lackey greasing the floors of their throne-rooms, making them less accessible to the usurpers and the gadflies; in short, I was someone terribly consumed with regret.
And so we sat in their office playing Russian Roulette.
I was compelled to play because a secret had been leaked. I’d failed to do my job. One of us would take the blame. As I played a few rounds I realized that they had conspired against me, as I helped them conspire against others. So I shot one with the only bullet I had; the other fled.
He found a place in the Bahamas though he was legally dead.
I ran a little bit, but then stopped at a fast food restaurant and just sat there, waiting for them to come for me. They’d triumphantly tout the apprehension of a petty thug from the underground attempting to extort money. And oh, I’d extorted, but so much more. That’s when I thought:
I needed to be caught. I deserved the punishments that I got.
When I awoke in the morning, I spent a long time looking in the mirror, wanting to know more how I saw myself behind my eyes, worried that maybe I was loosing the ability to choose what was right, or worse, that I couldn’t tell what was right and what was wrong.