Velvet cushion

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So hush, little baby, don’t you cry —
You know your daddy’s bound to die
And all my trials, Lord,
Will soon be over.

—Mickey Newbury, An American Trilogy

Just as everyone has a silver bullet, so too does everyone have, intended for them, a personalised, embroidered velvet cushion with a loaded revolver on it. It comes with a glass of scotch. Like a comet, deep in the black space beyond the edge of your solar system it moves, imperceptibly but inevitably, closer to you.

For many this is a deep terror — well, it must be, seeing how many people doggedly remain employed in the financial services industry for many years longer than common sense would allow — but for even the most fearful it comes with a tinge of relief, release, and hope: that there might be a better place, a better way of being, a place for you in the Iron Mountain’s Valhalla or even if there isn’t, just that whatever way of being the velvet cushion does bring, isn’t this.

The worst case is when your silver bullet is the very one who brings you your cushion. That hurts.

Even so, go quietly.

See also

• Silver bullet
• Iron Mountain
• survivor