He is accostomed to drinking, to binging really. "Unequal abilities actually," notes his wife, Lucy, mild, engaging and periodically afraid. Recent nourishments and acts, while not merely alcohol, considerably improved his standing as most likely to be shot in the face while exiting Melvin's Southern Tavern and Restaurant. "He just has a loose tongue," yes, she remarks, unremarkably, his wife, his long standing wife, his companion, his life partner--she is attached, yes it is documented: attached. Lucy, oh Lucy, she was the athletic samaritan, lacrosse practice and then suicide hot-lines, soup kitchens, yes, yes, of course.
He was most likely to be shot in the face after muttering, indeed perhaps exclaiming, some outrageous claim of human evolution, some claim of familial fame. The bushes, the rose bushes, were an excuse, later an error on Lucy's fault. He seemed the gardening type but his disposition would not permit it, no, his daily habit, his routine, his lifestyle would not permit it. They were life partneres, remember and she was likely to console herself in medicines, cabinets, bathrooms. I am so weepy, she would say and indeed, she would think: and it is my birthday!
There are seldom reasons to excuse the nature of a predator. Escalations do not occur. There is no breaking point--it is always breaking. The owner of Melvin's Southern Tavern did not encourage the action of the man. "The engagement, the future engagement, was more like a promise than a dare," he was quoted as saying. Someone overheard him. It was more like a promise.
"What a way for him to exhale," Lucy said later. He was shot in the face coming out of a tavern because of a dare--no it was a promise. He was prone to binges and they were aggressive binges. There is little but personal attacks at the end of binges. "I hate myself," he said before he died. And Lucy was weeping, right there in front of Melvin's Southern Tavern. She was weeping and she felt very weepy.