REXHAVOC
VOCALS &SAX
HARRYJOHNSON
GUITAR &HORNS
KALSTRONG
BASS &KEYS
TEDDIEJET
DRUMS &PERCUSSION
The band first met Robyn in mid-2022 and, after learning about the heartbreaking story of her father's mental breakdown, felt compelled to turn her deeply personal experience into a musical journey.
The result is this powerful album—an emotional adaptation of her story, reimagined through music.
New Album & Movie Deal
The band is currently in discussions with Robyn and three major movie studios to adapt the story of Eugene into a feature film, while also turning her personal journey into a compelling album.
Sway
The morning light softly filters through the frosted windows of the small, cosy kitchen. Snowflakes gently fall outside, blanketing the world in a soft, white glow. It’s quiet outside, the world muffled by the snow, but inside, warmth radiates from every corner.
Our character Eugene, 33, stands by the stove, flipping pancakes with ease, his broad hands moving with practised precision. He’s tall, with strong, calloused hands — a carpenter’s hands — but they've been softened by his new line of work, sitting behind a desk, answering phones.
Read more ...Still, his face shows resilience, a man who’s weathered a storm and come out the other side. He’s wearing a suit that he found at the thrift store and his hair is slightly tousled. Angela, his wife, moves gracefully around the kitchen, her movements familiar, as if this morning routine is a shared dance they've perfected over the years. She's in her robe, her smile lighting up the room. Robyn, their daughter, sits at the small round kitchen table, her tiny legs swinging beneath her as she scribbles something on a piece of paper—likely a drawing for Santa.
The radio hums softly in the background, filling the room with festive cheer. Outside, it's cold, but here, the warmth of their love and the smell of breakfast cooking create a bubble of comfort. The song "Sway" begins to play, and without hesitation, Angela reaches for Eugene’s hand. He grins, a bit sheepishly at first, but there's a boyish charm to him as he sets down the spatula.
Eugene turns to his wife, his rough hands now delicate as he takes hers. She giggles as he spins her in the small space between the counter and the table, their movements slower now but full of affection. They sway together, cheek to cheek, with Angela’s head resting on his shoulder. Eugene hums along to the tune, his deep voice barely audible over the music. For a brief moment, it feels like the world outside has disappeared—the financial struggles, the changes in their lives, the uncertainty of the future. In this moment, there is only them. Only love.
Robyn watches her parents dance, a smile stretching across her face as she looks up from her drawing. She stands and runs to join them, wrapping her small arms around their legs, and Eugene lifts her up effortlessly, swinging her in his arms as they all dance together. The clock ticks softly in the background, reminding them that time is passing, but for now, everything feels right. It’s Christmas Eve, and whatever tomorrow brings, they’ll face it together.
BAD DAY AT WORK
The train is late again. Eugene stands on the platform, huddled inside his grey overcoat, the collar turned up against the biting wind. Wet snow clings to him, soaking through his shoes, the slush squelching with every step he takes.
He checks his watch for the hundredth time—9:42 AM. He was supposed to be at work by now, already seated in his cubicle, and the day wasn’t going to wait.
Read more ...Finally, the train screeches into the station, its windows fogged up, and Eugene joins the throng of commuters shuffling onboard. The car is crowded and warm with the collective breath and bodies of tired people, their faces are drawn and grey. There’s no Christmas cheer here—just the grinding gears of the city, forcing its way through another bleak winter’s day. Eugene squeezes into a narrow seat by the window and stares out, watching the city blur by, the snow swirling in a thick, relentless fog.
Tonight, he thinks, tonight I’ll be home with Angela and Robyn. We’ll laugh and dance. It’ll be warm. By the time Eugene gets off the train, he’s running late. His hands are stiff and cold as he fumbles with his keycard, scanning in at the office lobby. His suit clings to him, slightly damp from the wet snow, and he feels uncomfortable and worn out before the day even begins.
As he drags himself to his desk, he gets a few glances from coworkers—some sympathetic, some amused at his dishevelled appearance—but no one says anything. It’s Christmas Eve, after all. Everyone's counting the hours until they can go home. Eugene slumps into his chair, which creaks under his weight. The office is a drab, grey maze of cubicles, with harsh fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. A tiny, half-hearted Christmas tree sits in the corner by the break room, its few ornaments hanging limp. There’s no music, no cheer, just the constant hum of the phone lines as his colleagues take one call after another, the monotony broken only by occasional muffled sighs or the dull clatter of keyboards.
Before he can settle in, the phone on his desk rings, breaking through the silence. His boss, Jack Kage, a tall, stern man with thinning hair and a permanent frown, stands nearby, watching Eugene with an unreadable expression. It’s clear from his presence that this call is important. Eugene wipes a bit of moisture from his brow, straightens his posture, and picks up the receiver. “Good morning, this is Eugene from VilliCorp Health Insurance, how can I assist you today?” His voice is steady and professional, but there’s a slight edge to it—he knows what’s coming.
On the other end of the line, a woman’s voice quivers as she speaks. “Hi… I, uh, I’m calling about a claim. My husband… he passed away in an accident. He fell from a crane at work. The construction company won’t accept responsibility, and… and… your insurance company is denying the claim because of some condition. They say it wasn’t declared… but he didn’t know! He didn’t know he had it!” Her voice breaks, and Eugene can hear the pain, the desperation. “Please, please… I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Eugene’s throat tightens. He’s heard stories like this before—too many times. He pulls up the file on his computer, his fingers hesitating for a moment on the keys. He glances up at Jack, whose eyes are fixed on him, hard and unyielding. Eugene feels the weight of his boss’s presence pressing down on him like an iron fist. He knows what’s expected of him.
The file appears on his screen, and the details of the case flash in front of his eyes. The insurance company is using a loophole: an undisclosed condition, something minor, something the man probably didn’t even know he had. Technically, they’re in the right. Technically, they don’t have to pay a cent. But Eugene knows what it means for the woman on the other end of the line. Financial ruin, on top of losing her husband. The injustice of it gnaws at him, but his job—his livelihood—hangs in the balance. And Jack is still watching, arms crossed, a stern shadow in the periphery. Eugene swallows hard, his voice low and strained. “Ma’am… I’m so, so sorry for your loss.
But… the claim has been denied. The policy… it excludes coverage for pre-existing conditions, and there’s nothing we can do to override that.” His words sound mechanical, detached like they’re coming from someone else. He’s practised this speech before—too many times. But today, it feels worse.
On the other end of the line, there’s a stunned silence. And then the woman sobs, a raw, painful sound that seems to pierce through Eugene’s chest. “But… but please… you have to help me. Please. I have nothing left.” Eugene squeezes his eyes shut, gripping the phone tightly in his hand. He wants to help her.
He wants to reach through the phone and fix everything, make it right. But he knows he can’t. Not in this system, not today. Not with Jack standing over him like a hawk. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I wish I could help.” There’s nothing more to say. The woman hangs up, her sobs echoing in Eugene’s ears even after the line goes dead. He slowly puts the phone back in its cradle, his hand trembling slightly.
Jack gives him a curt nod, satisfied with his performance, and walks away without a word. Eugene sits there, staring blankly at his computer screen. His body feels heavy like it’s made of lead. The office buzzes around him, indifferent to the life he just shattered. It’s cold and empty here, even though it’s Christmas Eve. But tonight, tonight he’ll go home. He’ll be with Angela and Robyn, and maybe, just for a little while, he’ll be able to forget about the phone calls, the denial letters, the pain he’s had to ignore.
But for now, all he can do is sit and wait for the next call.
POSTAL
After the crushing weight of the phone call, Eugene can’t shake the echo of the woman's desperate pleas. Her voice loops in his head as he stands up from his desk, his body tense, his breath tight. The air in the office feels thick and stifling, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like flies trapped in amber. He needs a break. Something—anything—to get away from his cubicle and clear his head.
Eugene heads for the canteen, hoping for a moment of quiet and a cold soda to dull the edge of his frayed nerves.
Read more ...But when he gets there, he finds the vending machine sitting dark and lifeless, the screen flashing an angry "OUT OF ORDER" message in pixelated red letters. His shoulders slump with frustration. Even something as simple as getting a soda seems too much to ask on a day like this. He kicks the machine lightly, but it doesn’t respond, mocking him with its uselessness.
With a sigh, he turns away, heading back down the narrow hallway toward his cubicle, trying to shake off the tight knot of anger building in his chest. But before he can escape back into the dull anonymity of his desk, Jack—his boss—steps into his path, blocking the way. Jack looks down at him with his usual sneer, the cold superiority dripping from his every word. “Eugene,” he says in that clipped, condescending tone that has grated on Eugene’s nerves for years, “you’ve got to start handling your calls faster. I’ve been watching you all morning—you’re taking way too long. We’re here to get them off the phone, not to play therapist, got it? If you can’t do that, maybe this isn’t the job for you.”
Something inside Eugene snaps. The words hit him like a hammer, but instead of making him fold in on himself like they usually do, they ignite something hot and uncontrollable. All the anger, all the frustration, the years of being pushed around, the guilt of denying people help—they all rise up in his throat like bile. His hands clench into fists at his sides, and he can feel his pulse pounding in his ears.
“I did my job,” Eugene spits through gritted teeth, his voice low and dangerous. “I do it every damn day. But you—” His vision blurs for a second, the world tilting with the intensity of his rage. Jack’s smug, dismissive face only makes it worse.
“Watch it, Eugene,” Jack says with a sneer. “You’re on thin ice. One more outburst and you’re—”
Before he can finish the sentence, Eugene’s fist flies out of nowhere, connecting with Jack’s nose with a sickening crunch. Time seems to slow down as the impact reverberates through the hall. Jack stumbles back, his hand shooting up to his face as blood begins to pour from his nose, bright red against the sterile white of the office walls. His expression shifts from shock to anger, but there's a flash of fear in his eyes, too—a rare vulnerability that Eugene has never seen before.
Eugene stands there, breathing hard, his hand still curled into a fist, the knuckles throbbing from the punch. The realization of what he's done settles in slowly, like a weight pressing down on his chest. The hallway is deathly quiet—everyone nearby has frozen in place, staring in stunned silence at the scene unfolding before them.
Jack, still clutching his bleeding nose, manages a shaky, bitter laugh. “You’re done, Eugene,” he snarls through the blood. “You’re fucking done.”
Within minutes, security arrives. Two burly guards stand on either side of Eugene as he’s led back to his desk to collect his things. The office is buzzing now, the sound of whispered conversations and shocked gasps filling the air. Eugene feels their eyes on him, but he’s numb to it all, his mind still reeling from what just happened.
He shoves his belongings into a cardboard box—some old photos of Angela and Robyn, a few trinkets, and the cheap company-issued pens and notepads he barely used. It feels surreal like he’s watching someone else pack up his life. The weight of it all—losing his job, the punch, the looming uncertainty—bears down on him, but there’s an odd relief in it too. He’s free, in a way, even though he knows it’s going to be a hard road ahead.
As the security guards walk him out of the office, his heart thumps with a mixture of fury and adrenaline. The cold wind hits him hard when the doors swing open, cutting through his damp suit, and snowflakes sting his face as he steps outside. But just before he’s fully outside, he stops in his tracks and turns around to face Jack, who’s standing in the lobby, dabbing at his bloody nose with a handkerchief.
Eugene’s voice comes out raw, primal, filled with every ounce of anger he’s been holding inside for too long. “I’ll fucking kill you, you prick!” he shouts, his words echoing in the cold air.
Jack just laughs—an ugly, dismissive sound that grates on Eugene’s already frayed nerves. “Yeah, sure, Eugene,” he sneers. “Good luck with that.”
With one final, seething look at his boss, Eugene turns and walks out into the snow, clutching his cardboard box tightly to his chest. The world outside is cold and unforgiving, just like the place he’s leaving behind, but at least now he knows where he stands.
ASSHOLE
It’s dark by the time Eugene stumbles out of the office, the wind biting at his face as the snow falls more heavily now, coating the streets in a thick, slushy blanket. The cold does nothing to clear his head. His mind is a storm of conflicting emotions—anger, shame, regret—all swirling together, drowning out any sense of rationality. His feet carry him around the corner to a bar he’s seen before but never ventured into. It’s small and unassuming, the neon sign buzzing dimly, casting a sickly glow on the wet sidewalk.
Read more ...He pushes open the door, stepping into the warm, stale air. The bar is dimly lit, filled with a few stragglers who, like him, have nowhere better to be on Christmas Eve. Eugene slides onto a stool at the bar, his coat still wet from the snow, and orders a drink. He downs it quickly and orders another. And then another. The alcohol burns, but it numbs him too, pushing the rage and sadness deeper into a corner of his mind where he doesn’t have to deal with it—at least not for now.
Hours pass in a blur of whiskey and bitter thoughts. He thinks about Jack, the blood pouring from his nose, the sound of the woman’s sobs on the phone, and the cardboard box filled with his pathetic collection of office belongings now lying in a trash can somewhere. The world feels hollow, stripped of meaning. As he drinks, the memory of Angela and Robyn—their laughter, their warmth—feels distant, almost unreachable.
By the time Eugene finally decides to leave the bar, it’s close to 11 PM, and he’s completely drunk. He stumbles through the snowy streets, the cold air biting at his cheeks, but the alcohol insulates him from the worst of it. His vision is blurred, and his thoughts are muddled, but one thing cuts through the haze: he’s not in a good mood.
When he finally arrives home, his heart pounding in his chest, the house is quiet, save for the low hum of the radio playing softly in the background. The warmth of the house contrasts with the bitter cold outside, but Eugene doesn’t feel it. His head is swimming, and the tension in his body hasn’t dissipated despite the hours spent drinking.
Angela is in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner, a concerned look on her face as she glances over at him. “Eugene? Where have you been? I’ve been calling you all evening,” she says softly, but there’s an edge to her voice. She knows something is wrong. “Are you drunk?”
Eugene kicks off his shoes clumsily, his wet coat dripping onto the floor as he stumbles into the living room. He doesn’t look at her. “Lost my job,” he mutters, his words slurred. “Fucking Jack… I—”
“What?” Angela cuts him off, her eyes widening in shock. “You lost your job? What happened?”
“I punched him. Broke his fucking nose,” Eugene says, almost proud of it at first, but then the weight of what he’s done settles back in. He’s not proud. He’s just angry. Angry at himself, angry at his boss, angry at everything.
Angela’s face twists in disbelief and anger. “Eugene! What the hell were you thinking? Why didn’t you call me? You’ve been out drinking all evening instead of coming home and talking to me?” Her voice is rising, frustration and fear battling in her tone. “It’s Christmas Eve! Robyn’s been asking for you, and you just—”
“Don’t lecture me, Angela,” Eugene snaps, his voice harsh and unsteady. His eyes are red, his face flushed with alcohol and anger. “I don’t need this right now.”
The radio in the corner of the room changes songs, and suddenly, a track called “Asshole” begins to play, its lyrics cutting through the tension like a knife. The irony of it makes Eugene's blood boil even more.
Angela’s voice trembles with both hurt and fury. “I’m trying to help you, but you won’t even talk to me. What are we supposed to do now? You just stormed out of your job, and—”
Before she can finish, Eugene’s temper flares. The frustration, the guilt, the shame—it all bubbles up to the surface, and he snaps. His eyes lock onto the radio, the mocking lyrics filling the room, and something inside him breaks.
“Shut up!” he yells, his voice thick with rage. Without thinking, he storms over to the radio, grabs it with both hands and hurls it across the room. The radio smashes against the wall, pieces of plastic and metal scattering across the floor, the music cutting out with a sharp, discordant crack.
Angela flinches, startled by the sudden violence, her eyes wide with shock and fear. “Eugene, what the hell is wrong with you?”
But Eugene doesn’t answer. His breathing is heavy, his chest rising and falling with the force of his anger. He can’t even look at her. Instead, he turns on his heel and heads for the door, yanking it open so hard it slams against the wall. The cold air rushes in, biting at his skin as he steps out into the night.
“Where are you going?” Angela shouts after him, her voice desperate, but Eugene doesn’t respond. He slams the door behind him, the sound echoing through the house.
Outside, the snow continues to fall, thick and heavy, muffling the sounds of the city around him. The streets are almost empty now, dark and cold, but Eugene doesn’t care. He shoves his hands into his pockets and starts walking, his feet dragging through the snow as he makes his way toward another bar. Somewhere, anywhere he can drown out the noise in his head.
Eugene heads for the nearest bar…
DRASTIC
The second bar is even grimmer than the first—its walls lined with peeling wallpaper, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the stale odour of spilt beer. The patrons are rougher too, grizzled regulars who’ve seen better days but come here for the same reason Eugene does—to escape. The dim lighting barely illuminates the space, casting long shadows that seem to stretch toward Eugene as he leans heavily against the bar, ordering yet another drink.
Read more ...The bartender gives him a wary look, but serves him anyway—this place doesn’t have the kind of standards that would turn away a drunk like Eugene. He downs the whiskey, feeling the burn in his throat but welcoming the warmth in his stomach. It doesn’t help, though. Not really. The anger still sits inside him, festering like an open wound that refuses to close.
A couple of stools away, two men laugh loudly at something, their voices grating in Eugene’s ears. His head swims with alcohol, and their laughter feels like a personal attack, a mockery of everything he’s been through today. His jaw clenches, the frustration bubbling up again as he glares at them.
“Hey,” Eugene slurs, turning toward them, his vision hazy but his anger crystal clear. “You think something’s funny? Huh? What the hell are you laughing at?”
The two men look at him, surprised by the sudden outburst, and exchange a glance before one of them, a burly man with a thick beard, responds. “Relax, man. We’re not talking about you.”
But Eugene doesn’t back down. The alcohol has stripped away his usual restraint, leaving only raw emotion and misguided rage. He stumbles closer to them, his hands shaking with a mix of anger and drunkenness. “Don’t fucking tell me to relax!” he snaps. “You… you don’t know anything about me. You don’t know what I’ve been through today.”
The bearded man stands up, towering over Eugene, his face hardening. “I said, relax,” he growls, his tone more threatening now. “Go sit back down before you get yourself into trouble.”
But Eugene is beyond reason. His world is a blur of anger, alcohol, and frustration. He doesn’t realize how drunk he is, how reckless he’s being. In his mind, he’s still in control, still justified in his actions. “Fuck you,” he spits, his words slurring together as he takes a shaky step forward. “You think you’re better than me? I’ll—”
Before he can finish the sentence, the bartender steps in, moving quickly to separate them. “Alright, that’s enough,” he says, grabbing Eugene by the arm. “You’ve had too much. Time to go.”
Eugene jerks his arm away, staggering back a step. “I’m fine!” he shouts, his voice echoing off the walls of the bar. “I’m not going anywhere!”
But the bartender has seen this kind of behaviour a hundred times before. He nods to the two men, and together, they grab Eugene by the shoulders, dragging him toward the door. He struggles against them, his arms flailing as he tries to resist, but he’s too drunk to put up much of a fight. They shove him out into the cold night, his feet slipping on the icy sidewalk as he stumbles forward.
The door slams shut behind him with a heavy thud, the laughter and noise of the bar fading away as Eugene finds himself alone on the dark street, the cold biting at his skin through his thin coat. Snow falls softly around him, but Eugene barely notices. His head is spinning, his heart is pounding in his chest, and a deep sense of injustice burns inside him.
“Bastards,” he mutters under his breath, glaring back at the closed door. “Throw me out? For what? I didn’t do anything…”
In his mind, the whole situation feels absurd. He doesn’t realize how drunk he is, how out of control he’s become. To him, the bartender and the patrons were overreacting—throwing him out like he was some kind of problem when all he did was speak his mind. The alcohol has blurred his perception, making everything feel distorted and unreal. He stands there for a moment, swaying on his feet, trying to gather his thoughts.
The cold starts to seep into his bones, and he shivers, rubbing his hands together to try and warm himself up. His breath comes out in heavy, visible puffs, and for a moment, he feels the weight of it all pressing down on him. His job, his fight with Angela, his outburst at the bar—it all feels like a crushing force that he can’t escape.
But then, as if driven by some stubborn instinct, Eugene turns away from the bar and starts walking. His feet slip in the snow, and he nearly falls more than once, but he keeps going. The streets are quiet now, most people inside with their families, celebrating Christmas Eve in the warmth of their homes. But Eugene has no destination. No place to go except back to the chaos he left behind.
As he walks, the alcohol continues to cloud his mind, making everything feel distant and surreal. He thinks about Angela, about the way they fought, about the radio he smashed against the wall. Regret creeps in at the edges of his thoughts, but it’s drowned out by the lingering anger that still simmers inside him.
By the time he reaches his street, he’s even more drunk than before, the whiskey and beer mixing into a toxic cocktail in his system. He stumbles up the icy sidewalk toward his house, his legs feeling heavy and uncooperative. His vision blurs, the streetlights and houses around him spinning slightly as he approaches the front door.
For a moment, he stands there, swaying on his feet, staring at the door he slammed shut hours earlier. The house is dark now, and there’s no sign of movement inside. He fumbles with his keys, dropping them twice before finally managing to get the door unlocked. The warmth of the house hits him as he steps inside, but it’s not a comforting warmth. It’s heavy, oppressive—reminding him of the argument, of the radio still lying in pieces on the floor.
He’s home, but it doesn’t feel like home anymore. He grabs his car keys from his hallway and heads back outside.
MURDER ON MY MIND
Eugene stands in the dimly lit hallway of his home, the oppressive quiet surrounding him like a thick fog. His vision wavers, the room tilting ever so slightly as the alcohol courses through his system. His heart pounds in his chest, the rhythm erratic, fueled by both the drink and the seething anger that still festers inside him. His hands tremble, and he stumbles, almost falling, as he walks toward the door. His mind is a chaotic blur, thoughts crashing into each other like waves in a storm.
Read more ...Angela's face, the shattered radio, the dim bar, the feeling of being thrown out onto the street like garbage—it all swirls together, but one image keeps rising to the surface: Jack. His boss’s sneering face, the laughter as Eugene screamed at him before being dragged out of the office, the blood dripping from his broken nose.The memory burns like a brand in his mind, and the anger surges again, hot and blinding.
Eugene opens the door, stepping back out into the cold night, the snow still falling steadily around him. The icy wind stings his face, but he doesn’t care. His breath comes out in ragged puffs, the adrenaline surging through him, drowning out the cold. His feet crunch through the snow as he makes his way to the driveway, where his old car is parked under a thin layer of frost.
He fumbles with the keys, almost dropping them again, but manages to unlock the door and slides into the driver’s seat. The car is freezing inside, and his breath fogs up the windshield as he sits there for a moment, staring blankly at the dashboard. His head is spinning, his body sluggish from the alcohol, but there’s something else now, something sharper cutting through the haze: a thought. A dark, insidious thought that’s been creeping into his mind since he left the house.
Jack deserves to pay for what he’s done. For what he’s taken from Eugene.
Eugene’s eyes drift toward the rearview mirror, and for a moment, he catches sight of himself—his red eyes, his unshaven face, the angry set of his jaw. He barely recognizes the man staring back at him. But there’s no room for self-reflection, not now. The rage won’t let him. His eyes flicker toward the back of the car, toward the trunk.
In the trunk, hidden beneath a pile of old tools and forgotten junk, is a handgun. It’s been there for years, kept in an old metal toolbox that he rarely opens. He’d nearly forgotten about it until now, but the memory resurfaces with a chilling clarity. A thought starts to take shape in his mind, something dark and dangerous, born of his drunken rage and desperation. Jack needs to die.
The thought comes to him with startling simplicity, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The man has ruined Eugene’s life—fired him on Christmas Eve, humiliated him, and laughed in his face. What kind of man does that? What kind of man deserves to walk away from that without consequences?
Eugene shakes his head as if trying to clear the fog, but the thought is persistent, insistent. It lingers, taking root, feeding off his anger and his pain. The more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. Jack is the source of all his problems. If Jack were gone, then everything would be better.
With trembling hands, Eugene starts the car, the engine sputtering to life in the cold. His fingers grip the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white, and for a moment, he hesitates. A small, rational voice in the back of his mind tries to cut through the haze, warning him that this is madness, that he’s too drunk to think clearly, and that he’ll regret this in the morning.
But the voice is weak, drowned out by the tidal wave of rage that’s consumed him. He’s too far gone now, too deep in his own darkness to turn back. He reaches for the lever to pop the trunk, the dull click echoing in the quiet night. He stumbles out of the car and makes his way to the back, his breath coming in harsh gasps as he fumbles with the latch.
The trunk opens with a soft creak, and there it is: the old, battered toolbox. His hands are shaking as he pulls it out, the metal cold against his fingers. He opens the lid, and there, beneath a tangle of rusty tools and old rags, is the gun. It’s smaller than he remembered, but it feels heavy in his hands, a weight that seems to solidify the dark thoughts swirling in his mind.
For a moment, he just stands there, staring at the gun. It feels like a decision, a line that, once crossed, can never be uncrossed. But in his drunken state, the enormity of the decision doesn’t fully register. All he can think about is Jack’s face, the sneer, the blood, the laughter.
“Fucking prick,” Eugene mutters under his breath, his voice thick with alcohol and anger. He stuffs the gun into the inside pocket of his coat and slams the trunk shut. Without another thought, he gets back into the car, his movements clumsy but determined. He doesn’t feel the cold anymore. He barely feels anything but the burning need for revenge.
He presses down on the gas pedal harder than he should, the tires spinning for a moment on the icy road before the car lurches forward. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly as he speeds down the dark, empty streets, the snow swirling in the headlights. His vision is blurred, and his reflexes are slowed by the alcohol, but he doesn’t care. All that matters is getting to Jack’s house. He knows where it is. He’s been there before, for office parties and the like. He knows the way.
The roads are slick with ice, but Eugene barely notices. He drives faster, the car skidding slightly around corners, but he keeps going. The world outside the windshield is a blur of dark shapes and falling snow, and all he can think about is the confrontation to come. The moment when he’ll finally make Jack pay for everything he’s done. The thought fills him with a twisted sense of purpose, something to latch onto in the chaos of his mind.
As he speeds through the night, the gun feels heavy in his coat, its presence a constant reminder of what he’s about to do. But there’s no fear in him now. Only rage, pure and unrelenting, pushing him forward, closer and closer to that final confrontation.
He’s going to kill Jack. And in this moment, that feels like the only thing that makes sense.
PURSUIT AND CAPTURE
Eugene pulls his car into the quiet suburban street where his boss lives, the snow crunching under the tires as he parks it at the curb. The engine idles for a moment before he turns it off, his breath heavy with anticipation, alcohol, and anger. The suburban street is eerily quiet, with only the dim glow of Christmas lights illuminating the houses. It's early morning—too early for most people to be awake—but Eugene doesn't care. His boss's house stands before him, a symbol of everything that's gone wrong in his life.
Read more ...His hands tremble as he steps out of the car, his breath visible in the cold air. The flashbacks start—the memory of this morning, of breakfast with Angela and Robyn. Angela’s smile, the sound of Robyn’s laughter, the warmth of his family. It feels so distant now, like a life that belongs to someone else.
But with each step toward the front door, the anger swells inside him again, overriding the sadness. His thoughts narrow, blaming Jack for everything—for firing him, for humiliating him, for the fight with his wife, for everything that has unraveled in the last 24 hours. His boss is the source of his pain. It has to end here.
Eugene reaches the front porch, breathing heavily. His heart pounds in his chest as he raises his fist and knocks on the door. There's no answer. He knocks again, harder this time, his anger rising with each passing second of silence. Still nothing.
He starts banging on the door with his fists, the sound echoing down the empty street. "Come on, Jack!" Eugene yells, his voice cracking with desperation and rage. "Open the fucking door!"
Finally, there’s a noise from inside the house—footsteps approaching the door. Eugene’s heart races as the door creaks open slightly, the chain still latched. But it’s not Jack standing there.
It’s a woman.
The door opens wider as the chain is unlatched, and she stands there, confused, clutching her robe closed against the cold air. Eugene doesn't even process what’s happening. His anger, his fear, and the alcohol take over, and in a knee-jerk reaction, his hand moves to the gun in his coat. Before he even realizes what he’s doing, he pulls the trigger.
One shot. Then two more.
A final shot echoes through the stillness of the morning.
The woman gasps, clutching her stomach, her eyes wide with shock. She staggers back, her mouth opening as if to say something, but no words come out. Blood begins to pool beneath her fingers as she collapses onto the porch, her body falling limply against the doorframe. The soft thud of her body hitting the floor reverberates in the silence.
Eugene stands there, frozen in place, the gun still in his hand. His mind races to catch up with what just happened. He stares at the woman lying on the ground, her blood staining the snow, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. He didn’t even think—he just reacted. And now she’s dead.
"Oh my God," Eugene mutters, his voice shaking. "Oh my God… what did I—"
Suddenly, a noise breaks through the shock—a voice calling out from across the street. Eugene turns his head sharply, his breath catching in his throat. A man stands in the doorway of a neighboring house, a phone pressed to his ear. The man sees Eugene staring at him, and their eyes lock for a brief moment.
Eugene’s stomach drops as he realizes what’s happening. The man—his boss, Jack—stands there, talking rapidly into the phone. He’s calling the police. He’s seen everything.
Panic floods Eugene's veins, drowning out the shock and guilt. Without thinking, he turns and bolts back to his car, his footsteps slipping on the icy sidewalk as he stumbles toward the driver's seat. He throws himself inside, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he fumbles with the keys. The engine roars to life, and Eugene slams on the gas, the tires skidding before catching on the slick road.
As he speeds down the street, his mind races, his heart pounding so hard it feels like it might explode. His breath comes in shallow gasps, and his vision blurs with panic and adrenaline. He can barely think straight—everything is a blur of fear, regret, and rage.
He drives recklessly through the quiet suburban streets, the snow whipping past the windshield in a dizzying blur. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white. He tries to calm himself, but it’s no use. The panic is too strong.
The radio is on, playing softly in the background, but Eugene doesn’t notice it at first. He’s too consumed by the sound of his own heartbeat, the frantic thud of it echoing in his ears. But then, a news report cuts through the fog of his thoughts.
"...reporting a shooting on a quiet suburban street earlier this morning. Neighbors are in shock as police arrive at the scene, where a woman was found dead on her front porch. Witnesses say they heard four gunshots and saw a man fleeing the scene in a dark-colored sedan..."
Eugene’s blood runs cold. The realization slams into him with brutal force. He didn’t shoot Jack. He didn’t even shoot Jack’s wife. He shot the wrong person.
The news report continues, the details unfolding like a nightmare. The woman he killed—she had lost her husband recently in a tragic construction accident involving a crane. Eugene’s stomach churns as the pieces fall into place. He knows who she is. She was the woman who called him earlier that day, begging for help with her claim, the one he had to turn away.
“Oh God,” Eugene whispers, his voice barely audible. The guilt crashes over him like a tidal wave, threatening to pull him under.
But there’s no time to think, no time to process what he’s done. The wail of police sirens cuts through the morning air, and in his rearview mirror, Eugene sees flashing lights in the distance, rapidly approaching. Panic surges through him again, and he slams his foot on the gas, the car lurching forward at dangerous speed.
He swerves onto the highway, the snow-covered road slippery and treacherous beneath the tires. The police car follows close behind, and soon, a second one joins the chase. The radio crackles with updates about the pursuit, and Eugene can hear the helicopter overhead, its spotlight sweeping over the road ahead of him.
He reaches for the bottle of liquor still sitting on the passenger seat and takes a long swig, the alcohol burning his throat. He knows it won’t help, but he doesn’t care. Nothing matters anymore. Not his job, not his family, not even his own life. Everything is ruined.
As he speeds down the highway, he switches the radio station, trying to drown out the news of his own crime. A new song begins to play—an ominous piece called “Pursuit and Capture.” The music seems to match the pounding of his heart, the relentless beat of the drums echoing the urgency of the police chase.
He drives faster, pushing the car to its limits, weaving in and out of traffic as the police cars close in behind him. The helicopter hovers overhead, its spotlight tracking his every move.
Eugene knows there’s no escape. But he keeps driving anyway, driven by some twisted need to o
ROBYN
Eugene's car lurches forward one last time, its tyres screeching on the icy road as he narrowly avoids hitting another pedestrian. The city around him is alive with chaos—police sirens wail, car horns blare as Eugene speeds past, his vision blurred by the alcohol still coursing through his veins. Snowflakes swirl in the beams of streetlights, dancing in the frigid air, but Eugene hardly notices. His heart is pounding, his mind racing, every inch of him aching with exhaustion and the sickening realisation that there’s nowhere left to run.
Read more ...His body feels heavy, his grip on the steering wheel slackening as the adrenaline fades, leaving him with the cold, hard weight of sobriety and regret. In his rearview mirror, he can see the flashing red and blue lights of the police cars closing in. The sound of sirens fills the air, growing louder and louder until it drowns out the world around him.
The chase can’t go on any longer.
Eugene’s mind flickers with memories—his daughter Robyn, her smile bright as she looked forward to Christmas morning, Angela by his side at the breakfast table, their quiet joy before everything fell apart. The warmth of home feels impossibly distant now. He can almost see Robyn, imagining her stirring awake, excitement bubbling inside her as she waits to open presents with her father. He can almost hear her voice, the way she says, "Daddy, wake up! It's Christmas!"
But that version of his life—of their life—feels impossibly far away now, shattered by everything he’s done. He sees the carnage left behind him: the cars he hit, the innocent woman he killed, and the wreckage of his own choices. There's no going back.
With a resigned sigh, Eugene eases off the gas pedal, allowing the car to slow down until it finally rolls to a stop on the side of a quiet, snow-covered street. The sirens still scream in the distance, but closer now, the flashing lights reflecting off the falling snow, painting the scene in eerie shades of red and blue.
Eugene leans back in his seat, staring out of the window. The snow falls heavier now, thick flakes blanketing the ground, muffling the world around him. Everything feels quiet, surreal—like he’s watching it all from outside his own body. His breath fogs up the glass, and he wipes it away with the back of his hand, just in time to see the line of police cars pull up around him.
He glances in his rearview mirror, and his heart lurches in his chest.
There, stepping out of a police car, are Angela and Robyn.
Eugene’s breath catches in his throat. His heart aches with a sudden, overwhelming rush of love and regret. Angela stands behind the line of officers, her face pale and stricken with fear. Robyn clings to her side, her eyes wide and filled with confusion. They’re here. They’ve come to try and save him, but it’s too late.
The weight of his mistakes presses down on him, suffocating. His mind spirals with guilt and sorrow, but a flicker of anger remains—anger at himself, at the world, at everything that led him to this moment.
The police crouch behind their cars, guns drawn, their voices distorted as they shout orders through the cold air. "Step out of the car! Hands where we can see them!"
Eugene takes a deep breath, steeling himself. He knows what’s about to happen. He knows there’s no way out. But he can’t let them take him without one last act of defiance. He’s always been a man who fought back, even when the odds were against him. And now, in these final moments, that instinct takes over.
Slowly, deliberately, Eugene opens the car door and steps out into the snow. The cold air hits him like a slap, but he barely feels it. He stands there for a moment, his breath coming in ragged puffs, staring down at the snow-covered ground. Then he looks up, his eyes locking onto Robyn’s across the distance.
She’s watching him, her small face pale, her eyes wide with fear and something else—something he recognizes as pain. His heart twists painfully in his chest. He wants to tell her that he loves her and that he’s sorry for everything. He wants to make it right, but there’s no time. There’s nothing he can say to fix this.
With a deep breath, Eugene raises his hands into the air, his expression set in grim determination. He knows what the police think—he knows they’re on edge, ready to fire at the slightest provocation. And maybe that’s what he wants. Maybe it’s better this way. He’s done enough damage.
But in that final moment, his mind flickers with thoughts of his family—of Angela’s smile, of Robyn’s laughter, of the life they once had together. A life that’s now gone. Suddenly, his body moves before his mind can catch up. He makes a gesture—a sudden, sharp motion with his hands that could be misinterpreted as reaching for a weapon.
The sound of gunfire shatters the quiet, sharp and deafening in the cold air. Four shots ring out, echoing off the empty street. Eugene feels the impact, the bullets tearing through him, and his body jerks as he staggers backwards. The world blurs around him, the snow, the lights, the shouting—it all fades into a dull, distant roar.
He crumples to the ground, the snow catching him as he falls. Blood seeps into the white powder beneath him, staining it crimson. The pain is distant now, his body going numb as he lies there, staring up at the sky. The snow falls gently onto his face, cold and soft, like a strange, peaceful lullaby.
And then, suddenly, Robyn is there. She’s kneeling beside him, her hands trembling as she touches his face. Tears stream down her cheeks, falling onto his skin like tiny raindrops. Her voice is breaking as she cries out, "Daddy! Daddy, no!"
Eugene opens his eyes, his vision is hazy and unfocused. His breath comes in shallow gasps, each one weaker than the last. He stares up at his daughter, his heart breaking as he sees the pain in her eyes—the pain he’s caused.
“Hey,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. His lips curve into a small, sad smile. “Hey… it’s my birthday.”
And with those last, quiet words, Eugene’s eyes closed for the final time. His body goes still, the life slipping away from him as Robyn collapses onto his chest, sobbing uncontrollably.
Her cries echo through the empty street, filled with grief too big for her small body to hold. She clutches her father, her tiny fists curling into his bloodstained shirt as she whispers, "I’ll get them, Daddy... I’ll get them."
The police lower their weapons, and the night is suddenly silent again except for the soft sound of Robyn’s sobs. Snow continues to fall, covering the scene in a soft, cold blanket, as the world moves on without Eugene.
FUCK YOU GOD
Eugene feels weightless as his soul drifts upwards, rising through layers of swirling mist and light. Everything is quiet and serene. He’s no longer cold, no longer in pain—there’s only a strange calmness that washes over him as he ascends higher and higher. He barely registers what’s happening, still dazed from his final moments on Earth. The memories of his life are scattered—his wife Angela, his daughter Robyn, the chaos of that terrible night, the pain he caused, and his own death in the snow-covered street. It all feels distant now, like the remnants of a dream slipping away in the morning light.
Read more ...After what feels like both an eternity and a fleeting moment, Eugene finally stops rising. Before him, the clouds part to reveal a set of grand, golden gates standing tall against the ethereal sky. They shimmer with an otherworldly glow, casting light across the vast, heavenly expanse beyond. This is the gate to heaven.
Eugene approaches the gates cautiously, his heart pounding in his chest despite the fact that his body is no longer made of flesh. He feels an odd mix of trepidation and defiance, unsure of what awaits him on the other side.
Suddenly, a figure appears before the gates—a tall, imposing man with a long, flowing robe and a beard of white that reaches down to his chest. His eyes are kind but firm, glowing with an ancient wisdom that Eugene can’t quite comprehend. This is St. Peter, the gatekeeper of heaven.
St. Peter steps forward, looking down at Eugene with a solemn expression. His voice is deep, echoing through the vast space as he speaks.
St. Peter: “Eugene… You have arrived at the gates of heaven.”
Eugene stands there, waiting. He feels small in front of the celestial figure, but his defiant nature still flickers within him.
Eugene: “So, what happens now?”
St. Peter looks at him, his eyes filled with sorrow rather than anger.
St. Peter: “You know what you’ve done. You know the weight of your actions. Heaven is a place of peace, of love, of forgiveness—but some sins, Eugene… some sins carry too much darkness.”
Eugene clenches his fists, his defiance rising again. He can feel anger bubbling beneath the surface, but mixed with that anger is guilt—guilt for everything he’s done. But he’s not ready to surrender to it, not yet.
Eugene: “I made mistakes, yeah. I fucked up. But haven’t I suffered enough? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do up here? Forgive?”
St. Peter shakes his head slowly, his gaze unwavering.
St. Peter: “Forgiveness is possible for those who truly seek it. But your heart was filled with rage, Eugene. You let that rage consume you. You took a life—an innocent life—out of anger and hate. And even in your final moments, you did not seek redemption. You sought defiance.”
Eugene feels a surge of frustration and fury. His entire life had spiralled out of control, and now he was being judged for it as if he hadn’t suffered enough already.
Eugene: “So what, that’s it? I just get turned away? After everything?”
St. Peter’s gaze softens slightly, but he remains firm.
St. Peter: “There are some sins that cannot be washed away so easily. Your choices led you here, Eugene. This is not a punishment—this is the consequence of the path you chose.”
Eugene feels his anger flare hotter, burning inside him like wildfire. He takes a step forward, his fists clenched tightly by his sides. His defiance is palpable, his pride refusing to let him back down.
Eugene: “Fuck you! Fuck all of this! You think I’m gonna grovel and beg for your forgiveness? Do you think I care about your rules, about your judgment? I did what I had to do! You don’t know what it’s like down there!”
St. Peter’s expression remains calm, but there’s a deep sadness in his eyes.
St. Peter: “You’re right, Eugene. I do not know the pain you suffered, but I know that you allowed that pain to destroy you. And now, you must face the consequences of your actions. You are not welcome here.”
Eugene glares at St. Peter, his chest heaving with the force of his emotions. The golden gates remain closed, and Eugene realizes that he will not be allowed entry. The weight of that reality hits him hard, but instead of surrendering to it, he lets his anger boil over.
Eugene: “Fine! I don’t need this place! I don’t need your goddamn forgiveness!”
With a final shout of defiance, Eugene turns away from the gates, his voice echoing across the heavenly realm as he storms off.
Eugene: “Fuck you, God!”
His words hang in the air, reverberating as he descends back into the void. The light around him fades, and the warmth of heaven slips away, replaced by an all-encompassing darkness. The further he falls, the colder it becomes, and the more distant everything feels—his family, his home, his life.
As Eugene tumbles into the depths, the last remnants of heaven disappear above him. The light is gone, and there is only darkness. He can feel it all slipping away, the warmth of life replaced by the cold embrace of the abyss.
Finally, Eugene lands with a thud on a jagged, rocky surface. He looks around, and the world around him is a twisted, fiery landscape—hell. Flames lick at the air, casting an orange-red glow over everything. The heat is oppressive, and suffocating.
And in the distance, Eugene can hear the screams—the screams of countless souls, lost to their own torment, just as he is now. His anger, his hatred, his rage—none of it matters here. It’s all just fuel for the fire.
But Eugene doesn't care anymore. He snarls at the flames, at the damned souls around him, and raises his fists in one last act of defiance.
NEW YORK REVERIE
Eugene Bader
Eugene’s hands once carved and built, From rough-cut wood, his craft was gilt. But now they shuffle papers cold, And count the costs of claims denied and sold. A life displaced by markets' fall, From beams and nails to empty calls. Where once he shaped a sturdy frame, Now words are warped with hidden blame. His anger sharp, his patience frayed, In halls of grey, his dreams decayed. Until one day, his silence broke— A fire fed by every word he’d choke. His daughter watched him fade to dark, A spark that flared, then left its mark.
Read more ...Robyn’s Vigil
A child once haunted, now a woman forged, Robyn’s heart, like tempered steel, engorged. Her father’s face, a ghostly brand, The memory etched by grief’s own hand. In courtrooms bright and offices cold, She climbed the ranks, sharp and bold. A law’s intent, a warrior’s will, But shadows linger, silent, still. Jack Kage, the name her fury wore, A man of power, greed, and more. She watched his rise, his polished lies, And felt her blood like embers rise. By day she’s justice, calm and fair, At night she’s vengeance, swift as air. Through rooms of men with wealth and clout, She hunts the secrets, roots them out. A reckoning for a life betrayed, For the broken father, the price he paid. She walks a path both dark and long, Guided by right—and by a wrong.