THE BEST DAY OF WALTER'S LIFE

Walter stumbled on some loose gravel and turned his ankle. It didn't break or sprain, but was still frustrating enough to be recognized as the last fucking straw. Walter had had enough, and anger swelled through his mind. It wasn't bad enough that his white trash neighbors had decided to start working on their so-called "hot-rod" at 4:30 in the morning, but his damn pillows had been lumpy all night as well, leaving Walter with an achingly stiff neck with which to greet another muggy, hot, Ohio summer day. The toaster had burned his last two pieces of bread into charcoal and, as he grabbed for the morning mail, he'd knocked over his glass of milk, which was past its expiration date anyway. The first letter he'd opened was a past due notice on his credit card bill, followed by five more letters of similar subject matter. His own calendar, a seemingly harmless piece of ink-printed parchment, mocked him with the knowledge that another paycheck was still eleven long, ball-sweating hot days away. Walter's apartment smelled funny from piled up laundry. Which, if it were to be cleaned, would cost him $12 at a crappy laundromat that was four miles away, and too often over-run with rude and violent teenagers. His toilet wouldn't stop running. The faucet in the kitchen sink incessantly dripped. He hated his job. Women ignored him as much as he lusted for them. He had too many calluses on his palm. His VCR was broken and his imagination had failed him years ago. Walter was the complete definition of sexual frustration. The only good thing about that morning was that Walter had found a toothpick, which he began to grind between his teeth. Cigarettes had gone up to five bucks a pack, and Walter barely had enough change to buy a free cup of water. His trash can reeked of rotten eggs and, as he'd lifted the liner from the can, the fucking roaches were brave enough to waddle their fattened asses across his sock-covered feet. Walter, with a dripping wet, foul-rubbish-water-leaking-out-the-seems trash bag in hand, opened his apartment door to walk out to the dumpster. He stumbled on some loose gravel and turned his ankle. It didn't break or sprain, but was still frustrating enough to be recognized as the last fucking straw. Walter had had enough, and anger swelled through his mind. He swung the trash bag above his head for some momentum, and then hurled it through the neighbor's window. The smashing sound of glass pleased him more than anything ever had in the past 40 years. He went into his bedroom and piled up the dirty sheets on his bed. He doused the pile with lighter fluid and tossed his lit Zippo into the mix.
"He stood across the street laughing. He watched it burn, all Halloween orange and chimney red."
When the fire truck came roaring down the street, Walter simply threw himself under the wheels. Tha-thump-thump. Bloodied and battered, Walter lived on.
The city of Euclid's Fire Department settled out of court for almost $6 million dollars.