3…2…1

In every graveyard, there are headstones. On every headstone is a name. Underneath each name are two dates. The first date is out of your control; the second date depends on your choices. In between those two dates is a dash. They say that the dash is the most important part. That dash represents your life. Everything you ever did, everything you ever said, everything you ever achieved, everything you ever failed, every mistake you ever made, every dreadful Monday morning, every joyful Friday night, and everyone you ever loved. It’s all spoken in novels through that singular dash. Encrypted in that dash is a timer; A timer measured in years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, down to seconds. The timer counts down from the moment you are born. Nothing we do will make it stop or even slow it down. Hardly ever, are we lucky enough or otherwise to know how much time is left on our timer. It could be decades or just a few heartbeats.

There will come a day or night, whether it be years or even minutes from when you read this, there will come one moment where the timer on your life will be all zeros and the only thing still ticking is your final 60 seconds. What are you worth in those final seconds? Will anything you say or do mean anything? Does anything that happens in those final seconds determine your legacy? 3…2…1

I first became aware of this timer of life when I watched my own daughter’s timer count down to zero right before my eyes. At 0:700 hours, March 14th, 2006, was the moment I held my daughter in my arms for the very last time. I’ll never forget the sound of the monitor. The way the doctor counted down the seconds like an executioner before shutting off the machines. My marriage fell apart in about 5 minutes. My wife left me for a female, Latina supermodel. Who would have thought? My daughter was by no means the first death I had ever witnessed in my life, but it was the one that changed me the most.

In my career, I have watched many people’s life timers hit zero. In all different ways and for all different reasons. In all honesty, I never lose too much sleep over it. It is as necessary to the functionality of my business as is fixing or replacing broken machinery in a factory. Death is how we clean stuff up, enforce rules and consequences, silence loud voices, and tie up loose ends.

Ever since that day in the hospital, whenever someone died by my own hands, I always counted down 3…2…1 before pulling the trigger just like the doctor did. It became my ritual. That’s how I got the nickname, “Stopwatch” in my crew.

The police call me a criminal. My family, if they were still alive, would call me a disgrace. The way I see it, I’m no different from any of the other political giants who created the 50 stars and 13 stripes you pledged allegiance to in grade school.

Why do I say this, you ask? Well, I had just gotten my first promotion in my crew when I realized something. Humanity is the only species that struggles with being controlled by its own creations. For centuries, we have allowed ourselves to be dictated by entities of our own invention. Systems we created to paint this illusion that we have control. In the end, it’s always us being controlled. In the beginning, humanity created society. Now society controls humanity. Then society created money. Now money controls society. Then money created power. Now power controls money. Then power created authority. Now authority controls humanity. We buried ourselves in a miles-deep grave of systems and politics all in the name of maintaining this lie we have told ourselves. Healthcare was a system we created under the lie that we could control it but then it ended up killing my daughter in my arms. I was tired of waiting for systems built by generations of corruption to decide I was good enough.

What I did with my life was become the shot caller of a different kind of system. The dash on my headstone serves as a monument to my reign of money and power but most importantly my rebellion. It represents all the people I had to step over to become the overlord of a lucrative business. Unlike everyone else, I didn’t let the so-called laws hold me back. I didn’t need permission from anyone to become what I was truly meant to be. My biggest mistake in life was not becoming a criminal, it was remaining loyal to the real criminals, the criminals that killed my daughter, for far too long.

They only call me a criminal because I refuse to follow the evil systems, we fooled ourselves into thinking were just. You call me “the bad guy” to give a righteous name to your jealousy. You’re jealous of how I have been able to free myself from the political slavery you have been a servant to since the day you were born. But the system wants you to think that I’m the “bad guy” so they give me names to tear me down like a bully on the school playground. The politicians were so keen on keeping the lie of humanity alive that they formed a task force of every three-letter agency in existence just to bring me down. I am sorry to say, as far and as long as I could run, bring me down they did.

For a moment, I thought my timer had finally hit zero when that unmarked patrol car PIT my Dodge Viper and I did a nosedive into the dried-out Los Angeles River. My car flipped upside down like a domino. I climbed out in pieces to face my pursuers. Standing there, I was blinded by flashing red and blue lights, surrounded on all sides by yet another system humanity invented and now finds itself at the mercy of. All those guns pointed in my direction like I was the monster. Where were those guns when the healthcare cartels were holding my daughter’s life for ransom? Where were those guns when my wife left me for that super model?

But I would never take a breath inside of a jailcell. God forbid they put doctors on the jury. I would rather die at the hands of law enforcement than be sentenced to death by the same terrorists that sentenced my daughter to hers. The judge, the jury, the prosecution, the police, and the newspapers would spread every sob story they have about my victims. Never mind the federal government treats its own citizens worse than I do and they’ve been doing it for hundreds of years. I couldn’t bring myself to stand in front of the world’s eyes while the corrupt systems humanity uses to maintain the illusion of world power point their fingers at me and say, “That’s the bad guy!” The thought that my ex-wife could be watching my trial from the couch while her wife cooks her dinner sickened me.

For these reasons, when I found myself confronted by all those LAPD officers, S.W.A.T. Operators and 3-Letter Agents, I drew my silver Browning Hi Power, took aim and counted down 3…2…1.