They'd been training for awhile now, as much as Joe knew how to train a person to do the shit he did, but he'd done what he could for Logan. The kid had a gun, he had knowledge, he knew what he could do, but part of Joe was still worried that the part of him that knew what to do would be overwhelmed by the part of him that still wanted to do what was right.

The first job he'd grabbed for the two of them was something Joe normally would've passed over. The pay off wasn't huge, but the person they were looking for was a murderer and he was a cruel son of a bitch, even if he wasn't particularly rough. It was as cut and fucking dry as he thought they could get without hunting a fucking unicorn or something.

"Okay, here," he said, tossing an envelope to Logan. It had a picture, contact information for the people they would be taking the bastard to and information on the crime.

"Leland Fortier. Multiple homicides, never arrested, never caught. It's who we're going after."

The only thing worse than a botched bounty, Joe figured, was going back to the guys who'd hired him and telling him that he'd fucked up their bounty. That the kid they were looking for, the one in the pictures with the dark hair and the big eyes, she was still out there. She was still running around Miranda, acting like some fucking big shot because she'd been carrying a gun -- which Joe hadn't been told -- and had managed to get off one good shot.

No, maybe the one thing that was worse than admitting he'd fucked up a bounty was admitting that he'd fucked up on a tiny female bounty. That a seventeen-year-old girl had gotten the better of him. That the reason his shoulder was still stinging and bleeding was because her shot had just grazed him, burning through his clothes and his skin within seconds. Fucking cunt.

It was dark when he finally left John's safe house after hiding out there all day. Bruised and sore, Joe had needed the place to crash, but now he needed to get out again. Being shot sucked, yeah, but it was the guys who'd hired him who'd done the nice work on his face. A black eye and a split lip weren't anything new to Joe, but it was the bruised ribs that hurt.

Limping slightly, he turned toward the Chapterhouse, then thought better of it and just stood where he was on the street, guns heavy and comforting against his back and his thigh. He was in a bad fucking mood.

As of this post, a different version of Joe will be using this journal. He is not the same Joe that all other posts refer to, a completely different incarnation of him.

All posts above this will be for au_niverse only.

All posts below are from Joe's stint at theatrical_muse.

What are your thoughts about monogamy?

Joe doesn't think about monogamy like most people do. He acknowledges that there's one person for him, one person he really loves and that it's Billy. But sometimes you just have to fuck other people, Joe knows this and he knows Billy knows it, too. Joe doesn't fuck anyone else now, not with Billy actually there and living with him, but that's different. It's different from the times they were together, but not. The times they lived in the same apartment, but danced around the attraction and the need. Joe fucked lots of other people during those times -- men, women, mostly groupies, sometimes roadies, now and then a hooker -- while he waited for the two of them to finally get their shit together.

Those people never counted, though. They never mattered. They were ways to pass the time until he and Billy could be Joe'n'Billy, so he's always been faithful to Billy. He's always wanted Billy first. Sometimes life just doesn't work that way, though, and sometimes you have to deal with what you've got. And when what he had wasn't Billy, Joe dealt with it. He doesn't need to worry about dealing with it anymore because it's just Billy now, and Joe's happy about that, but there used to be times when the two of them would fuck with each other just to avoid fucking each other.

Joe doesn't really miss those times.

There've been countless people in Joe's bed, most of them he can't even remember. But the only one who's mattered, the one he's loved since he was twelve, the one he's been committed to his whole life is Billy.

The rest of the people were just filler.

Have you ever woken up in the morning and not remembered what you did the night before?

I'm a coke addict, what the fuck do you think? For about four years there are more nights that I didn't remember than nights I did. Maybe that's for the better, I don't fucking know. Clearly, I don't fucking know. The drugs did a number on my memory.

The night I would've hoped the drugs would black out was the night we did acid. I might be a dumb fucker, but I was smart enough to stick with just acid and not mix it with coke, but that night was fucked up beyond all reason anyway. I wish I didn't remember it. I knew Bucky was pissed at the time and I was feeling really fucking low, but even that shit I could deal with remembering. It's the goat that I'd like to block out. The fucking goat, man.

The whole film crew was fucked up with it. The sound guy, the camera guy, even Bruce had taken what Bucky had offered. Bucky, his girl, the whole band, we were all flying. Totally beyond fucked up. I don't even know where the goat came from. I just knew that one second the four of us were together, arms around each other, dancing like we had when we were nineteen, twenty, and then suddenly there was a goat. John was holding it down and fucking... Jesus, I don't know, he was fucking kissing it, it looked like. He had his tongue out and he was touching the goat with it, but you're on acid and that shit is okay.

Then Pipe had a chainsaw and Bucky, the motherfucker, was urging him on. Like out of a horror movie. There was blood everywhere and Pipe was screaming and maybe Bucky was screaming, too. Or maybe I was. Maybe it was the goat. It was haunting, whoever it was, and I still remember that noise. I remember the goat, too. I remember it kicking and thrashing and then suddenly... nothing. I remember thinking how easy it would be to just leave like the goat did. Just fucking cop out, just expire.

We drank it's blood. The goat's blood. I remember that, too. The four of us drank it like it was some bullshit ritual that would bond us forever.

It didn't.

Maybe I want to forget that night because of that. Because, in the end, we weren't bonded. In the end, we were just four guys in a band. Calling us friends would've been fucking pushing it.

If...

"If we make it big, what'll you spend your first paycheque on?" Billy asked, looking over at where Joe was sprawled out on his stomach on the floor, scribbling words across a napkin he'd found on the counter earlier.

"Hookers and cocaine," Joe teased without looking up, writing the word 'inconvenience' across the napkin, directly under the words 'trial, error & the motherfucking hangman', although none of it is coming together just yet. He'd never really considered making it big, not the same way he knew Billy thought about it. Maybe they would, maybe they wouldn't, but it wasn't very punk to be making music videos and to have makeup artists who styled their mohawks before a television interview, but most of the time Joe didn't say that. Most of the time he kept that to himself.

Billy laughed and tossed a balled up napkin at him. "Seriously, Joe."

If they made it big, what would Joe spend his first paycheque on?

"Maybe some records," he said, shrugging. "A new guitar strap for sure, mine fucking sucks. Digs into my shoulder and it's all worn down. Oh, hey, I'd get one of those cars we keep looking at down at the lot. One of the really nice ones with tinted windows and shit like that. A lot of beer. Maybe some pot or something." Maybe some cocaine, but he knew Billy didn't really like that, so he didn't say that either. "Maybe something for my mom for letting us practice in the basement without killing the four of us."

"Yeah," Billy said, smiling a bit. "I think I'd like a new guitar. Another one, I mean."

They hadn't even needed to make it big. Big in Canada was relative and after recording their first record, Joe had cashed his cheque and bought himself a new guitar strap, but he'd spent most of his money on a ring Billy had been looking at for months; a big silver ring with a snake twisting through the letter H. It had been goddamned expensive, but for Joe, it had been completely worth it. It was fucking gay and he knew the other guys would make fun of them both if they knew, but they didn't have to know.

Billy still wore that ring.

If you make it big, Billiam, will you still wear it?

He did. That was all that mattered.

When I awoke the next morning...

I wasn't supposed to. Wake up, I mean. I was supposed to be dead, and I sort of wanted to be. It'd been a shitty fucking night, Billy leaving, Bruce talking me into the whole suicide thing, having to do take after fucking take until it looked real enough. Bruce didn't give a fuck about me. He just wanted a good ending to his shitty documentary.

So that's it, right? I wasn't supposed to wake up the next morning, I didn't want to wake up the next morning and anyone who'd cared about me thought I hadn't. But I did and the sun was fucking shining. Of all the things, the fucking sun had to be shining through that window like it was a regular day. I guess to the people who didn't know me it was a regular day, but my whole fucking life had changed the night before. Mostly because it was supposed to be over.

I was still high when I woke up. I think I was still drunk, too, but I couldn't feel that over the buzz from the cocaine. I couldn't remember how I'd gotten home. Bruce might've helped me or the fucker might've tossed me in a cab and given the guy my address for all I know. I did get home somehow and I woke up in my bed. I'd even managed to get myself undressed.

I woke up still high and the fucking sun was shining and the first thing I did was call Billy. Fucking stupid, right? Yeah, well, I was high and I'd fucking killed myself the night before, so I think a little sympathy might be in order for my fucking plight that day. I called Billy and he answered, his voice all quiet and low, and I don't know what the fuck I expected. Something more, I guess. More than what I heard. Maybe I wanted tears.

I wanted him to miss me already and I couldn't hear that in his voice, so I hung up.

I woke up the next morning and heard about my death on the radio. And Billy didn't even miss me.

Describe a chance encounter that changed your life.

When I was twelve I got picked up for vandalism. Stupid shit, really, but I was twelve. I hadn't reached my full potential at that point. My parents were pissed, of course, but when weren't they? A trial date was set, I went to the court house with my parents, blah, blah, what the fuck ever. It wasn't a big deal. At most, you get a fucking fine for vandalism and my dad would've taken it out of my allowance or some bullshit like that. It wasn't like they didn't have the money to toss around anyway. In fact, that was all they did. They tossed around their fucking money and acted like it mattered.

We walked into the court house and my parents wanted to sit on one of the benches near the door, because down by our room there was this blond kid sitting alone. My parents were with their own little criminal and they were fucking scared to sit near a skinny little blond kid because he might fucking cut them or something. My parents are rich snobs, but I never said they're smart rich snobs.

My mom kept hissing at me to sit down, but I walked down the hall and they followed. They always did. I sat myself right next to that scared looking blond kid and even at twelve, I knew that this kid was important to me somehow. Sounds fucking corny, I know, but that's how it was. I saw him and I knew we were supposed to be friends and whatever the hell else we've become.

When I sat down, he looked up at me and I smiled. Had to. Even if I had tried not to, I would've smiled anyway. He smiled back and unnerved my mother, and that was that. My life was fucking changed.

The kid I met that day taught me how to play guitar and appreciate music and steal cars. He played in every band I've ever had. He fucked with my head and he fucked with my life and he gave me shit when I needed it. He practically lived at my house sometimes because his mother was such a fucking bitch, and even though he'd freaked her out at first, my mom grew to love him. She'd never say it. She never says she loves me, but she did. She grew to love that blond kid and so did I.

If not for him, I don't know who the fuck I'd be.

Who was "the one that got away"?

Ed Fucking Festus.

And I know you cunt rags mean this in a fucking romanticized bullshit way, but I choose to not take it that way. I got Billy now, anyway, so what the fuck is the point of rehashing that shit? The one who got away was Ed Festus, and he got away with my entire fucking back account, that stupid son of a bitch.

Long story short, Ed was a friend of ours back when we were still struggling. Really struggling. Getting paid in fucking deli trays kind of struggling. He knew about money, so I sort of invited him to help us out a bit. Become our unofficial management. He managed us alright, I guess. We got some better gigs, got paid in real cash. A lot of that shit me and Billy did, though. Ed just fronted us, made us look better than the trash we really were. He knew how to handle money, so we let him.

It turned out the asshole knew how to handle money a little too well and he handled it right away from us. Our entire fucking bank account, almost everything we'd made. Festus took it all and then claimed he did it legally because we'd had a verbal fucking agreement with him. Legally he could do what he did. But he was fucking dead to me after that. The asshole was our friend and he took us for everything we had.

Of course, that was sort of after I fucked up our potentially big record deal and I think he did it because he was pissed, but that's no goddamn excuse. All I did was pee in a man's drink. Ed robbed us blind and left us in the gutter. All of us. If it was just me he hated, he should've taken it out on me. The rest of the band didn't deserve that shit.

So, yeah. Ed Festus is the one who got away. The goddamn prick.

Close your eyes and think about what you've been missing in your life lately. It could be a person, pet, place, thing, occasion, feeling. Anything at all that you miss dearly.

I miss cocaine.

I miss the stage. I miss adrenaline, fears, nerves and fucking passion in my veins. I miss my guitar loud in my ears and Pipe's drums behind me. I miss John's fucking reassuring presence to my right and Billy's wiry bundle of energy on my left. I miss the audience screaming my words back at me, I miss trusting the people I play with more than I've ever trusted fucking anyone.

I miss writing with Billy, early mornings in vans and buses, papers spread between us, words scrawled across them. I miss the process of slowly making those words into songs. I miss sitting beside Billy on tour, smoking against the van before a show, after a show, when the fuck ever.

I miss the charge in the air before a show. I miss being introduced to the fans, people screaming my fucking name. I miss the way it made me feel so goddamn alive. I miss the energy. I miss the way my fingers would be numb after a show, I miss the way my callouses would sometimes rip and bleed. I miss the shitty bar food and I miss the shittier diners we'd do to when we were done for the night. I miss the way my body would fucking hum for hours after a show.

I miss feeling like I'd fucking changed people.

And, if I'm fucking honest, I miss coke, but I sure as shit don't miss what it did to me.

What is the most dangerous thing you have ever done?

I once used Pipefitter's bathroom. I almost fucking died, man.

Okay, seriously, I once faked a benefit concert. I told the whole fucking world that some asshole insane fan had shot Bucky Haight on his farm and that both his legs had been amputated. I told Billy that story just to get him back. We played for a benefit called Rock Against Guns and we raised twenty thousand dollars. It was a huge fucking success. Everyone was happy. I got Billy back for a tour, the charity got the money.

Until I stole it.

Twenty thousand dollars into my pocket. Why? Because I needed it. Because I was fucking broke and I needed the goddamn money. Because I lied about Bucky just to get Billy back. It was never about the benefit concert. It was always about Billy and because it was never about the benefit, I took the money without thinking. Twenty thousand dollars.

I didn't fucking think. Not until that final show when Billy walked out did I really start to think. I'd lied about Bucky. I'd used Bucky and he never wanted to see me again. I could fucking deal with that. Billy didn't leave because of the lie, so that hadn't ruined anything with him. Other things ruined me and Billy back then, but not the lie about Bucky and not the stolen money.

The reality is that I stole a shitload of money from a charity. If I hadn't done the bullshit suicide thing someone would've caught me eventually. Charged me, put me in jail for real. It was fucking stupid and fucking dangerous and I did it because I wanted to get high. I didn't think of the consequences, I didn't think what would happen to me when I was found out, I didn't think of how people would feel, how hurt they'd be by the shit I pulled. I didn't think about going to jail. I could've done time. Such fucking stupid shit.

It was fucking stupid and so fucking dangerous.

One little compliment can make you feel amazing. So give me a compliment, anything in the entire world, even that my shoelaces are pretty. Put this in your journal. And once you get some comments, put that entry in a memory or tag and when you are feeling down, just go to that entry and this will remind you how great you are.

COMPLIMENT ME, BITCHES.

What does your dream home look like?

This is a queer fucking question.

And my answer is just as fucking gay.

Bucky had this farmhouse out in the prairies that looked like it was built and decorated by some house wife in the fifties. I fucking loved that place. I've never been happier in any house than I was in that one. At the time things were really fucked up and after we left they just kept getting worse. Nothing got better and before I could do anything about all the shit, I was playing dead and Billy was gone.

That's my dream home, though. Not Bucky's exactly, some shit like that. Not in the fucking prairies either, no thank you. Jesus. But somewhere outside of Toronto, maybe. Outside the suburban areas, somewhere near enough that we could drive in if we needed to, but far enough away that we wouldn't have to deal with the bullshit of every day city life.

It'd be big, too. Sprawling, like farmhouses are. I wouldn't want the fucking animals, but a barn just because it looks right. And a long, winding driveway with about six broken down cars sitting off to the side somewhere with signs that read 'For Sale' propped up against the rusted bumpers. I don't want a place that looks fucking... perfect. I want a place that looks lived in. I want a place that looks like someone happy once lived there and maybe once died there, too.

I want peeling blue paint on the outside walls. Not so peeling that the place looks like a fucking run down piece of shit, but enough that people will know we haven't painted in a few years. A wrap around porch and a screen door. A dog, maybe. Somewhere to sit on the porch, like one of those fucking gay swings. An armchair that looked out of place in the living room, so we hucked the damn thing out on the porch to get rid of it and then it just... stayed. The railing of the porch has to be wide enough to sit on so that I can lean against the supports and sit on it while I smoke and drink my coffee in the morning.

Maybe the prairies wouldn't be so bad. You've got that fucking sunrise coming up over the flat horizon with nothing to block it.

Big windows covered with old lady lacy shit from the inside, especially in the kitchen. I told you, I want the damn thing to look like it was decorated by a house wife. The furniture isn't allowed to match, but it had better be fucking comfortable. Armchairs and couches that you sink into. One of those huge TVs that are set in wood and look like they belong in a fucking museum.

A big kitchen so that playing my guitar at the table doesn't get in the way while Billy cooks. Yeah, that's right, fucker. I'll put you in the kitchen. Mismatched dishes and old iron pots from my grandmother's house. Faded wallpaper and cool tile floors in the kitchen. Yellow countertops, tacky looking shit.

Big windows really are necessary. Farmhouses aren't really right without them, they're not right without the sunlight flooding every single room, you know what I mean? And even though it doesn't look like we take care of it, the damn roof over the porch better not fucking leak, because I want to be able to sit out there when it rains.

I want the bedroom to be an add-on. Something the original owner didn't plan on, but something the next owner wanted, so they built it. I want it to stick out from the rest of the house a bit and have fucking windows on all sides, except the side that faces into the house, for obvious reasons. It'd be on the second floor, and the bed would be one of those huge old wooden things that creak when you get into them. A big fucking heavy headboard made out of dark wood. The kind that leaves dents in the wall when it hits it too hard, like it better be doing if Billy and I are out there together.

I want Billy to live there with me. I want him to be able to feel like he can bring Billie there whenever she wants to see him.

I loved Bucky's place. Except I don't want that ugly fucking scarecrow on my goddamn farm.

Write about your father.

I feel like I should be stretched out on a fucking couch with some pathetic excuse for a doctor leaning over me and taking notes as I talk. What the fuck is this? Share time with Joe Dick? Fuckers.

My father was a rich asshole with too much time on his hands and too few people to belittle. He was... distant. Emotionally abusive. I fucking hated him.

My mother once told me that the only difference between loving someone and hating them was that you felt shitty when you hurt the person you love. Take a moment to consider what kind of man makes his wife think shit like that. Then take a moment and realize that his spitting fucking image is standing before you. It's a wonder Billy and my mother aren't more alike.

I never meant to become him.

When he found out I was alive again he threatened to sue me for emotional damages, not to mention the fucking wad they blew on my swanky coffin and funeral. I almost wish he would. In order to sue for fucking emotional damage you have to have emotion, right?

I never became him in that aspect. I was too fucking emotional where he was dead. That was never the problem. The problem was the abuse. The yelling and the snarling and the fucking hurt. He and I are both fucking experts in emotional abuse. I'd have to be. I learned from the best. But emotions, man. He had too few, I had too much and he hated me for that. I was too goddamn emotional for him. He wanted me to be more like my brother. I never was. I never could be, thank Christ.

When we were sixteen my mother caught me and Billy together. She didn't say anything about it because... fuck, I don't know why. Because maybe she knew how fucking hard it was to find someone like Billy when you're a Mulgrew. The only thing she did was put on a lock on my door and when I asked why she said, "Well, you know your father". What she meant was "if he ever catches you he'll make you both wish you'd never met each other" and... fuck him. Fuck her and fuck him and fuck the whole damn world of fathers who think they can get away with shit like that.

My father isn't worth the effort it's taking me to write this.

ooc: Just a quick note for people who RP with Ray or Joe (or Amy & Mamet, but I don't do much in the way of RP with them) that I'm coming up on my last few weeks of university, so I won't be available for much in the way of RP. I will be around now and then, but it'll be pretty sporadic until I'm done my papers and exams.

Write about a time you mocked somebody.

Pipefelcher. And if you don't know what felching is, come on in and let creepy Uncle Joe tell you a fine, fine tale.

( Cut for Joe being a disgusting, repulsive ass. )

Wow, Cuntface. That warms my cockles and other dirty shit like that.

Where the fuck is my fucking rose, Billiam? Alan Shore bought me a rose and all I get from you are useless blowjobs and ass fucking!

When in your life did you know you were not alone?

The day after the fake suicide shit.

Ironic, eh? Or maybe it's poetic justice. What the fuck ever. Call it what you want, that's when I knew, probably for the first fucking time in my life, that I wasn't alone. Typical Joe Dick fashion. I didn't even know what I'd had until I pissed it all away because of drugs and hookers and alcohol. Didn't realize who'd been there until I'd fucked it up for good.

Felt even less alone on the day of my fucking fake funeral. Knowing that all those people actually fucking cared... it's something. And I couldn't do anything about it because I had shot myself on screen. Even if I did say 'fuck it' and go back out, people would've been too pissed. Plus there would've been that whole problem with the missing twenty thousand, so it wasn't really a good idea.

It's fucked, right? And sounds pretty fucking typical. Boo fucking hoo, I didn't know what I had until it was gone, but the reason it's so fucking typical is because it's true. Because humans are fucking stupid and we pull shit like this all the time. Because we're all typical assholes who pull the same shit over and over again and never fucking learn or change. So I thought I was alone and then it turned out that I wasn't. But it was too late because I'd made the whole world believe I was dead, because Billy believed I was dead.

And then for the next ten years I was alone. I met people, talked to people, fucked people, laughed with people, maybe even loved some people, but I was alone. I'd made myself alone. My fucking choice, my fucking mistakes.

Second chances, third chances, fourth, fifth, sixth... whatever. You can give people every fucking chance in the world and they won't get it until it's gone. They think they've learned, but they really haven't.

I think I've learned this time.

ooc: Joe doesn't EVER do memes, but this was kind of funny.



Cuntface... that's sweet.

You and me, Billy. Can't fucking escape me. Even the fucking computer thing says so.

Write a letter to anyone about anything. Say what you have always wanted to say but have been afraid to.

Dear William Boisy,

I'm writing to you under that name, fucker, because... hell, I don't even know why. Because that's how I met you. Because that's how I remember you sometimes and it fucking hurts to know Bill Boisy is as dead as Joseph Mulgrew. We're so much the other people now... so much those fucking punk handles that we stopped being the kids we used to be. (Guess I should shut the fuck up, huh? I guess that's what they call growing up.) I don't even know how to be Joseph Mulgrew anymore. You got any ideas, cunt? Because as much as I ragged on him, I liked Bill Boisy. Hell, I loved Bill Boisy. I love the guy he turned into more, but Bill Boisy was a good fucking kid. He was my friend, you know? I had a lot of fucking friends, even then. A lot of "friends". People who wanted something from me. Fuck, not to get all Bucky Haight on you, Billy, but people who fucking used me. Even at twelve, thirteen, fourteen. Who knows how to manipulate a person at twelve?

Maybe you did. Maybe you didn't. Fucking point is that you never did it to me. Bill Boisy never used Joseph Mulgrew. Not a single fucking time.

Can't say the same for Billy Tallent and Joe Dick, but that's fucking life, isn't it?

This letter is supposed to be about things I've always wanted to say but have been afraid to. I started out thinking I had so much fucking shit to tell you, but I don't. Not really. I have... things. Things, I guess. Little fucking things to me, big things to you. Maybe big things to you, maybe not.

Telling you I loved you that first time was the second hardest thing I ever did. In my entire life, Billy, those words top the fucking scale as one of the hardest things. Putting a fucking gun to my head was easier. Pretending I was dead was easier. Knowing it fucked you up, knowing you thought I was dead and thinking it'd kill me. All those things were fucking easier than telling you I loved you. But I do, fucker. I love you.

And it's not so hard now and it scares the shit out of me to think I've gotten to that point where 'I love you' means nothing and my words have become fucking useless. You always told me that you were scared of something happening to your hands and I always fucking laughed at you, but I thought the same. About my words. I'm always afraid my words will stop making sense, that they'll stop being good, that people won't care when I talk, when I write, when I fucking sing. I'm always afraid my 'I love yous' have descended into nonsense. I don't say it often, I don't fucking throw it around, but I always felt like I said it way too fucking much to you. There. One thing I've always wanted to say but have always been too scared to.

Letting you get on a plane to go to fucking Los Angeles was the hardest thing I ever did. Letting you go without a fight was... I tried to kill myself that night. The first night you were gone. Melodramatic bullshit, I know. My second attempt. You were there for the first, you remember the fucking vomit and the pills and that bullshit, but this time I went with a noose. John found me, the fucker, and slapped me around after pulling me down. Fucking John, Billy. The fucking pacifist of the group. He hit me. It was great. But... I woke up the next morning with those rope marks on my throat and remembered John had been so scared and mad that he'd hit me and I turned over to tell you because you were always fucking there when I needed to tell you things. In my bed or maybe on the floor beside the bed or on the couch or the mattress in the living room or even in the bathtub. Sometimes you were in the fucking stairwell, but I never asked. The thing was, Billy, you weren't there. And then I remembered why I'd tried to kill myself.

The first time I did it for attention and got dick all. The second time I did it for real and got so much fucking attention that I wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

Okay, what the fuck else? You want to know the truth about the fake suicide, right? I mean, fuck, man, we've talked about it twice since you've been back and you still don't believe me. Mostly because I'm a big fucking liar and you know it. I'll tell you, Billiam. I will tell you the God's honest truth about why I faked my death. I'll give you every fucking reason that went through my head that night, okay? Every single one. Fucking point form.

- Legal problems. I would've done time for the benefit and you damn well know it.
- I was angry at you and I was fucking hurt and I wanted to hurt you as bad as you'd hurt me.
- I wanted to show you I was serious. Fucking ultimatum to the highest degree, eh?
- I was drunk and so goddamn high on coke that I felt like faking my death was the smartest thing in the world.

And the number one reason, Billy... fucking drumroll, please. I did it because I knew one of us had to die. We existed in such a fucked up, twisted, angry, love-hate-lust fucking triangle thing that neither of us could get out of. We would've existed like that forever if one of us hadn't died during that tour, Billy. You would've come back and you fucking know it. You would've come back and you would've hated me for it and the whole damn thing would've started again.

One of us had to die and I could never kill you. As much as I wanted to, as much as I prepared to (and I did, Billy, I held the gun in my hand and waited for the right moment to pull the trigger and end your life), as much as I thought it'd be for the best, I never could. I can hurt you, but I could never kill you. So I had to kill me. No more Joe Dick, no more fucked up, twisted, angry, love-hate-lust triangle thing, right? Eliminate the fucking problem.

So... there. Are you fucking happy? That's why.

I'm no fucking poet, no matter what the shitty music magazines of our day said. I'm no fucking poet, Billy, but I do love you. And I did do it with the best intentions. And, fuck, man, I am sorry.

Yours, in every possible way,
Joseph Mulgrew

PS - Joseph Mulgrew is legally dead. Bet you never thought you'd get a fucking letter from beyond the grave, did you, fucker? Fucking eerie, isn't it?