Billy takes the bullet. It’s an elevator ride back to his 80,000. But each time someone quits it feels as though they have died. Billy meant a lot to me. This Eulogy goes out to him. I know he’s out there looking at me saying, ‘see you next time space cowboy.’
He’s in a sort of heaven now where from he can look down and perceive my secrets, because I told him my name in passing.
“Think of it as a repayment for all those cigarettes I bummed.” I said.
A shift in the skies bounces us an hour forward.
“This was indicated on the calendar.” I say. “Nine is the number of death.”
I am the psychopomp wandering the fog, zip-zooming through the galaxy, encountering fluff fading from the central mass.
“I really do want to hang out with you sometime.” he says.
I smile and shake his hand.
“It’s been good working with you.” I say.