Gnawing Wolves

I can't drowned, because Chaney drowned in Sebago Lake in 1960. I'm more a jumper, but have always feared surviving the failure of any attempt at suicide. During my descent to death Maz was enlisted to help me end it all, but driving past the boreal pines of Quebec to the tundra. Someplace where the trees are small.

I planned on getting out of the car and walking into the wizened wasteland wearing warm clothing with an eight-ball of smack and a couple of grams of coke. Find a tree under which to sit comfortably and hit up a double OD speedball. Trying back from 100, not even getting back to 97 from 100.

My fear.

I'm stronger than death.

The hot shot was not hot enough and I wake to the sound of a timber wolve gnawing on my feet.

Crunch crunch crunch.

I shout and limp from the tudra to the road.

Maz is snorting blow behind the wheel of the car. He gets out and opens the passenger door.

"Wolf?"

"Yes."

"Cool."

I wrap my gnarled foot with duct tape.

Maz turns around and we drive back to Quebec. It was a dream, but I fought off death and live today, for nothing is written other than by the wind. I ain't going nowhere yet.