He went out again that night. He didn't say why or where he was going. I took the opportunity to check out his treasure box, the place where he kept all his personal items - candy bars, bananas, things like that. At the bottom were hundreds and hundreds of fake Rolexes, watches I've never even seen before.
Bobby's secret stash. I cannot believe I did not notice it for days.
I left my PC on so I could confront him when he got back. I waited. And waited. And waited. I finally fell asleep, my head resting upon the top of my desk.
It must have been at least 3 am when I was awakened by a gasping sound. My monitor had auto powered down hours before, but a flick of the mouse reactivated the screen. Bobby was there alright, crumpled in the corner, surrounded by teaspoon and lighter.
Happier than he had ever been, Bobby fell into a drug-induced stupor.
"Uhhhggg," he gurgled. "Eeuuurrhhhggahaahaaahaahaahaa" The gurgling soon changed to chuckling. "Best fuckin' shit yet, bruther. Best fuckin' shit!"
He was tripping. I'd never seen him so happy before.
"Jesus! Where'd you get that?"
"Hehehehehehe. It doesn't matter, man. It's all relative." He began to crack up and didn't stop laughing for around four hours. After that, depression sunk in.
"You ok, dude?" I inquired. I got little response, occasionally a "hnnf" and a disapproving look. His coat had lost it's gleam, his eyes has lost their shine, and his beak seemed to be broken in a barroom fight.
This cycle of waiting up in the night for him to get back home continued for about three weeks. I would wait up, fall asleep, and be woken by Bobby getting his daily hit. The bird had a problem. I should've tried to help him more, but I was beginning to become afraid of what he had become.
"Come on, dude. I'm taking you to the clinic. They'll sort you out. Come with me," I pleaded.
Bobby resisted all the help I attempted to offer.
"Fuck you man. I ain't going to no shrink. What? You think I need rehab? Fuck you!" Bobby screeched back. He just couldn't accept facts: he had a problem. I couldn't force him to do anything he didn't want to do.
All I could do was hide his stash and go to bed.
Bobby fell onto the screen later that night, drunk as fuck, throwing up everywhere, depressed and talking to himself. He started looking around for his gear but wasn't able to find it. He began pinching the wall and wailing, "Just one more hit! Where man is it, Jesus?" This was for his own good.
Bobby's entire world was turned upside down.
He became desperate and started sobbing. He slid down the wall onto the floor, weeping uncontrollably. He paused for a second, something shiny catching his eye.
He turned the razor blades on himself. I can't say I blame him.
Bobby had found one of the electronic razor blades that the Quake Marine had used to shave with. Before I had a chance to rush across the room and left click to stop him, Bobby had done the deed.
The blood wasn't a problem. My desktop was already mainly red.
Bobby was given a 32-bit burial the following week. I have since learned to never open up to another text-to-speech artificial AI program again.
Simply put, if I had Johnny Manziel’s physical gifts, you better believe I would be there in the Weight Room, getting to bed early, doing whatever I had to do to be the best possible athlete I could be. I wouldn't be posting on social media about sucking titties. I wouldn't even look at a titty, buddy. I'd look at a titty and see two big footballs.
A real friend doesn't move until the middle of August, ensuring temperatures in the 90s and a humidity that turns boxers into moist balls of ruined cotton.
Expendable? You must be joking.
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