I used to love the Final Destination movies, and I feel like a final boy in a movie. You know, the one that survives the serial killer’s murder spree. The best friend, the boyfriend, the bullies all die, but the final boy survives.
I’m that mother fucking guy.
My lips twitch into a rare smile as I walk into the convenience store and ask for a lottery ticket. I know they’re choosing winners tonight at seven, which means I’ll have something to look forward to.
It’s almost five o’clock, my work day is over, I’m ready to kick back and enjoy myself. Lottery ticket in hand, I begin to walk back to my apartment, making sure I pay attention to my surroundings. I’ve had too many close calls for comfort.
It’s amazing what you notice when you’re actually paying attention. A cute couple gets engaged as I walk past, people open doors for others, and I get smiled at often as I casually make eye contact.
It’s kind of nice. I often complain that I don’t make connections with people in the city, but I think I’m the problem. Taylor Swift cheekily croons in my mind, brought to life as I begin to walk past a restaurant.
Rolling my eyes at myself for knowing all the words, I stop walking to glance at the menu. It’s a steak restaurant, and while it’s a little more expensive than I usually go for, the smells coming from inside call to me.
“For luck,” I murmur under my breath as I open the door and walk inside.
The restaurant isn’t too busy since the dinner rush hasn’t started yet, and I’m reminded of how crotchety I am. I’ll typically go in around this time because I forget to eat, and no one needs to deal with my low blood sugar.
My stomach chooses this time to complain violently because I skipped lunch as I tell the hostess that I need a table for one, but she simply smiles at me.
“Let’s get you to a table so we can get you some food,” she says kindly. “We can’t have you fainting on us, can we?”
Grateful she’s not going to shame me for my stomach’s behavior, I follow her to a table. The tablecloths are white, the waiters are wearing pressed white shirts with a black vest over them and black pants, while the hostess wears a black dress.
This place is really nice.
Sitting down at the table, I continue to look around with appreciative eyes. The decor is dark wood, watercolor paintings, and a wine bar at the far end of the room.
“Hello, sir,” the waiter says, nodding at me. “May I give you the menu?”
“Yes, please,” I say with wide eyes.
Taking it from him, I order a beer, and he nods without judgement as he says he’ll be right back. I rarely drink, but after the last few days, I feel like it’s warranted.
Looking over the menu, I decide on a ribeye, scalloped potatoes, and baby carrots. When the waiter comes back with my beer, I place my order, and then people watch as patrons slowly begin to fill the restaurant.
I came at the perfect time. There are business men negotiating deals, a man who has to be here with his mistress due to the way he keeps looking around to see if anyone recognizes him, and then there’s me.
Just a regular guy here to celebrate being alive.
As the waiter brings me a knife for my steak, it slips out of his hand and heads toward my lap. Gasping I spread my legs, and the waiter’s jaw drops as it stabs the chair right between my legs.
The knife was eyeing my dick! Death by castration is a terrible way to go. The waiter winces as he reaches between my legs to grab the knife and pull it from the wood of the chair.
“I’m so so sorry, sir,” he hisses. “I’ll get you a new knife. Your food will be right out, and it’ll be comped due to my clumsiness.”
“It’s…fine,” I rasp, my heart racing as I nod.
Honestly, nothing is sacred. Not even my dick.
Someone else brings out my knife, and I can hear yelling coming from the kitchen. Ugh, I hope they didn’t drop my food. Thankfully, my steak dinner comes out without an issue, though I’m told I’ll have another waiter to serve me.
Apparently, my previous server had to go home with a serious injury. As long as my current server doesn’t try to cut my dick off or kill me, I’ll survive.
I make sure to cut small bites of my food and chew thoroughly, not only to fully enjoy the experience, but also so I won’t choke. Everything tastes amazing, plus it was free, so I have nothing to complain about, which is a first for me.
I practically float home with happiness, and it’s time to check the lottery numbers by the time I get there. Nervously, I load the website to check to see if I won, fairly certain that even my luck can’t be that good.
Digging into my pockets for my ticket, I toss my phone onto my bedside table as I look.
