Diabolic Fiction

New Better Man

Dallas Berman was 55-years-old and dying. The doctors told him it was prostate cancer...inoperable. He could already feel the burning sensation through his body...the crawling of the disease...the oozing of its murderous tendrils.
So it was on the day of the visit to Dr. Ferber that Dallas decided on his plan.
He had already given it a name...The New Better Man Plan.
He took care of Step One by having a will drawn up on his computer. One of those Do-It-Yourself jobs...his neighbor was a notary public and the legal will was soon stashed in a bank's safety deposit box.
Step Two was a letter to his daughter. It wasn't very long...only two pages. He hadn't spoken to her in 30 years. There was so much to say, but none of it would interest her.
Step Three went something like this:
It was just after noon and Dallas made his way into a Manhattan department store. Once inside, he stripped down naked and pulled a shotgun from his jacket. He screamed insanely...he pissed himself...he shat on the smooth marble floor of the Ladies Department...he waved his gun above his head...and then, he let loose with both barrels and blew the head off a four-year-old boy standing next to a mannequin.
An off-duty cop tackled Dallas from behind and held him down until a team of police arrived to take over.
Dallas was arrested, charged and went to trial in just 4 days. The outrage over the poor boy's murder was splashed across the tabloids...cries for his public crucifixion were numerous. But, as luck would have it, and as Step Four had been planned, Dallas was found innocent by reason of insanity and remanded to a high-security mental institution.
Dallas was allowed frequent walks in the yard. He mingled with other inmates and patients and found that his sentence and why he was jailed was kept a secret. When asked why he had been sent to prison, Dallas responded with a story about nervous breakdowns and the death of his high-school sweatheart.
He soon gained a few friends. His favorite conversationalist was a middle-aged man named Mark. He was an agreeable fellow...and, like most inmates, had found God. He would preach mostly, but never talked about why he was in prison.
But all this was part of Step Five:
"Mark?"
"Yes, Dallas?"
"Would you accompany me to the movie tonight?"
"What do you mean? Like a date?"
"Oh, no. Just, go with me...wait for me so we can walk together and chat."
"Are you sure you're up to it, Dallas? I know you are very sick."
"Oh, I'm fine, Mark. Just meet me by the game room a few minutes before the movie."
"Sure."
The time passed by slowly for Dallas. He read. He slept. He comptemplated masturbating, but figured it might dull his senses. He had to be alert for Step Six which went something like this:
"Well, Mark, you're on time."
"I'm excited to see the movie. Do you happen to know what they're showing?"
"Yes, Mark. They are showing HELP!"
"What?"
"HELP! The Beatles film. Have you seen it?"
"Uh...yes...a long time ago."
"Really? Well, it is one of my favorites. I mean, I'm a Beatles fan through and through, and I like everything they ever did, but HELP! has always been my favorite."
"Oh."
"Yes. And I'm so glad they're showing it tonight. It'll make me so happy."
"Well, that's good, Dallas. But, I'm feeling kind of sick...maybe the meatloaf coming back to haunt me...so I think I'll go back to my bed."
"Oh...ok, Mark. But one thing before you go."
"Yes, Dallas?"
"Just a little payback."
Dallas thrust a sharpened pencil through Mark's eye. He jammed it in with the palm of his hand and then broke it off. Mark dropped to the ground and scraped at his damaged socket. Dallas knelt down and drove a second pencil into Mark's neck. It punctured an artery and blood poured from the wound.
Step Seven:
Dallas took a seat and waited as the projector warmed up. He reached into a breast pocket and pulled out two pills. He swallowed them dry and worked them down his throat while the first few notes of HELP! washed over him.
The pills were working fast. Dallas was soon in the numbing embrace of eternal slumber.