Hey man, nice shot.

“So we seriously need to talk to this Handjob.”

I had filled BigWig in on everything that I’d seen and been through since we’d last spoken. We were sitting alone at a table in Eat ‘n’ Park in Squirrel Hill. Murray Avenue was a long way from Laga, but I had a Bob at the time. I’ll explain Bob and the Precious Collective later. Suffice to say we had whatever transport we needed.

Eat ‘n’ Park was one of a small handful of 24 hour destinations in Pittsburgh which made it the after-bar location. A regional chain restaurant and a Pittsburgh tradition, picture it like a Perkin’s or a Denny’s. Ostensibly a family restaurant, they specialized mostly in breakfast, and served an amazing strawberry pie. I’d worked there briefly a couple years prior, but the nature of the industry meant that no one is worked with was still employed there. The only other real choice for the night was Ritter’s Diner, and while the food there was much better it was also slightly more expensive and the atmosphere was… let’s say less conducive to conversation. As amusing as gun wielding drag queens can be, it’s really hard to have a serious discussion around them.

“That’s what I was thinking. Problem is I have no idea when he’ll get out of Western, and I have zero intention of going there. As far as I know they might not let me leave.” I’d taken a week long vacation back when I was 18, staying as a guest at Western Psychiatric. My commitment had been voluntary, and had been due to some… anger issues I was having.

BigWig winced visibly, only the second crack I’d seen in her otherwise calm and professional demeanor, giving me a hint that she’d also been their guest at some point. “Yeah… we’ll just have to wait.” She went back to looking over the papers that I had brought. “Wenet is new. I’ve never seen her show up in any of the anecdotes that I’ve tracked down regarding the Game.”

I took a sip of my coffee. It was like she was two different people. The cool professional was a total contrast to the very warm and cuddly creature I’d shared the dance floor with. I’m between giving my story to her in loud whispers that are the default means of communication in a night club, we’d shared a few more dances. While we talked she was an attentive and serious listener, those icy eyes fixed on mine intently as if memorizing the curves of my face while she absorbed the content of my story. She seemed surprised and disturbed by the story about Jake. Even more so by my description of the dream that helped me connect the name to Handjob. But mostly she kept a firm cool look on her face.

That all changed when we hit the floor. Maybe I was projecting, but when she danced it felt like she had a palpable aura of raw animal hunger surrounding her, growing stronger and stronger with each trip around the dance floor, only to be replaced immediately on sitting with the businesslike affectation. I honestly had no idea what to think of her.

If I wanted something more than just a business relationship with her, I had to get something from her. “So how did you get involved in the Game?”

I thought for a moment that she wouldn’t answer as she gazes at me across the table with those icy eyes. Instead she just licked her lips and said a single name. “Budd Dwyer.”

Husband and father of two, a career state level politician, and Pennsylvania State Treasurer from ‘81 until ‘87, Dwyer was a fairly unremarkable fixture in Pennsylvania politics from the mid sixties until he was convicted of accepting a bribe in 1986. In late January of 1987 he held a press conference that most believed would end with his resignation rather than disgracing the Office further, although Dwyer had told many close to him that he had no intention of resigning.

He did not resign.

After a thirty minute speech, disjointed and unhinged, that one reporter described as ‘sad’, Dwyer produced a Manila envelope and drew from it a Smith & Wesson Model 19 .357 Magnum. When some present tried to disarm him, he waved the gun around saying “Don’t, don’t, don’t, this will hurt someone.” As he backed away from those assembled. Then, his back against the wall both literally and figuratively, he put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Five news cameras were rolling, one of which maintained a close-up of the aftermath of the bullet tearing the back of his head off and embedding itself in the wall. Most news outlets chose to freeze the footage prior to the gunshot, but Pittsburgh’s own WPXI broadcast the entire thing uncensored on the news at noon, later showing the edited footage on the six o’clock news because ‘children will be home from school’.

This was January. A lot of us had snow days. I still occasionally see Budd, his eyes, nose and mouth leaking blood that matched the sickly grey matter spattered over the wall behind him, slumping down to the floor when I close my eyes. And every time I hear Filter. Dwyer was 47, the same age I’ll be this August.

And I only had to see it once.

An eleven year old Hyzenthlay had been watching cartoons with her uncle Richard, taping Tranzor Z as she often did, when Uncle Dick had quickly changed the channel. She witnessed the same thing I did, but she swore that before putting the gun in his mouth, Dwyer said something else. Something her Uncle rewound and replayed over and over again, letting his young niece see the suicide replayed dozens of times.

“The Door is Open”