Bottle of Hot Sauce. Buzzing lamp. Half empty beer. Empty pack of cigarettes. Sofa Chair. Dylan on the stereo.

Lenny Greesto sat in his sofa chair, smoking a cigarette, passively listening to the soft voice of Dylan sing 'You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go'. He lifted a black, stained finger to his mouth, and took a long drag on the unfiltered, wrapped tobacco. Sure it wasn't healthy, but neither was his job. Coal factories stain the land and their workers dark and dingy. Lenny didn't care about that, not anymore. He was going to die soon anyway.

Sure, everyone's going to die eventually. Doctors had told Lenny he was going to die of a rare blood disease, which had come down from his mother's side of the family. Wavy brown hair, captivating eyes, a muscular build, and hereditary elliptocytosis. Fear the Greeks, especially when they bring gifts. Because those gifts probably contain elliptocytosis, a common occurrence in Greek and African descendants.

It had started out as gallstones. He just thought they were something he would always get. Some tedious life experience he would have to deal with. Then, after repeated incidents, his doctor decided to run a few extra tests. Then they removed his gall bladder.

Too little too late.

They said he had 6 months, tops. Not much they could do really. Not now anyway.

Here he was, dying of something he couldn't do anything about. Not cancer from coal or the tar sticks. Not a car accident, or a house fire, or a mugging, or a routine surgery gone wrong. No vicious animal attack, or bad sushi, or barrel ride over Niagra. A rare blood disease. What are the chances? The doctor had told him, but he couldn't remember.

There was one other thing, this one from his father's side. He had a deadly allergenic reaction to cayenne pepper. No buffalo wings, no Jumbalaya, no tortilla soup. Especially, most of all, no Hot Sauce. His throat just closed up, and he turned blue and stopped breathing. Peppers turned him the color of cold. That had to be some kind of supernatural irony.

He told himself, if he had to go, it would be on his terms. Not much else had been, and since it was too late, and he was too poor to do anything worthwhile with the time he had left, he would do something else. He would try something he had always wanted to, even though it would kill him.

Lenny Greesto would soon check out of life, by downing a bottle of hot sauce. Very hot sauce. "Sudden Death Sauce" read the bottle.

How very appropriate.

He wondered if the manufacturer would capitalize on his timely act of death. "So hot you'll die! Just look at Lenny Greesto!" At least he'd be known for something. At least he'd leave a legacy. "Hot Sauce Suicide" the papers would read. He indulged the line of thought a little longer, then philosophically lifted the small, glass bottle, and held it in front of his face.

He let his eyes linger on the bottle, and realized, very unclimactically, that his whole life had led up to this. He would leave no will, as there were no heirs. The whole of his property, at least what was worth anything, could be loaded into the back of a 1970 Chevelle. He knew, because it had, several times.

Suddenly he remembered his vinyls, his record collection. They mattered. They were something, something great. Wearily, he scrounched for a piece of paper and pen with his free hand, juggling the hot sauce as he groped the drawers of an old coffee table.

After a minute he found what he was searching for, and scribbled the following:

To whom it may concern,

This is not a suicide note, just a request. Please give my vinyl collection to whoever wants it. Preferably a bluegrass fan. Tell them the Byrd's album with Gram Parsons is my favorite. Thanks, and sorry for the mess.

Sincerely,
Lenny Greesto

Lenny placed the note on the table, propped up his legs and leaned back on the sofa. He popped the top on the bottle, and threw the contents into his mouth, and let it drain down his throat, just as the fifth verse began. He put the empty bottle on the note, before his throat closed up, never to open again.

Excess from the bottles top slipped down the glass surface, forming a red ring at the base, staining the informal will and testament of Lenny Greesto.

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