You can read “The Suicide Pod” for free on my blog here.

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Dear World

Please Kill Me,

I’ve got a thing for deathful things. 

No, not in the belt and doorknob with lotion way. Not in the true-crime “THE BODIES WERE WHERE?!?!”-obsessive way. Not even in the traditional grimdark and poetry way. Rather, I’m interested in death the way that some might be into exotic recipes, hopelessly curious about the means, motivations, and executive mechanics, the “whats”, “what-ifs”, and “whys” of it all (—existentialism and endings, sans the man-bun and Nirvana). I’ve always been that way—from seppuku and Kevorkian, to cyanide and kamikazes.

Terminality is innately fascinating.

We all have to face death at some point.

Why not indulge in the sneak preview?

When I stumbled on a story regarding the eponymous “suicide pod” (Sarco-pod, human euthanasia device, satan’s ovary, etc.) I was immediately intrigued—not motivated to write, not interested in the pod itself, but the people who’d chosen (or considered) to end their lives for a nominal fee, usually to escape some unfortunate diagnosis or circumstance. 

This may sound dark (and it is), but those ‘final interviews’ are often more revealing than scrawled napkin notes and drug-induced TikTok rants. The people are lucid, well-informed, and convinced of the option. The (for lack of better words) ‘executioner’ (a medical professional, whose morals I won’t pretend to know) is usually kind, curiously friendly, and violently transparent (… though, I guess you HAVE TO BE). The story simmered for a while before becoming a question: “What does that look like as a full-on for-profit business?”

(Think: McDonald’s. But DEATH…)

Then another: “What kind of society allows this?”

And another: “Who does that job?”

Then FINALLY: “What are the consequences?”

The first question was easy to answer. As a business, an American one, anyway—suicide would need to be litigated, socially accepted (or well-justified), and medically adjacent, while being close enough to give the appearance of professionalism. CORPORATIZED. COMMERCIALIZED. COLD and CODED… “Number 7,889, it’s your turn!” Imagine the DMV with higher stakes and an ACTUAL WILL to DIE. A morally questionable society that’s fucked up enough to want out, but not so broken the powers-that-be can’t make a buck…

—which answers the second question. Who does that job? Answer: A dick.

A mildly competent, sociopathic, societally affected DOUCHE.

If nothing else, that’s one of the more interesting types to follow. Remorse is boring.

There were more than enough comparables: Insurance agents, creditors, loan sharks, scammers, healthcare CEO’s (allegedly)—the archetypes were there. All that was left was playing that scenario out to its semi-natural (admittedly extreme) conclusion—Thank You for Smoking meets Sorry to Bother You, as written by Charlie Booker (…dialogue by Bukowski).

It’s good to have goals.

The aim was a tight, mean, slow(ish) burn that felt like Killvorkian’s waiting room.

I made an early call to skip the “Wolf of Wall Street” and “Boogie Nights” type rise of the assholes (… been there, done that, been done enough…). Instead, I gave it a soul—a relatable core that wasn’t excess, naivety, or vague aspiration. My newly minted douche-collage needed a reason for you to care. Not empathy but honesty. He needed a family. Fragile status. Disappointment. Pain. Cognitive dissonance…PROOF OF LIFE. Life lost. Life gained. Enough life to want death, yet enough to keep living.

That gave me the core feeling. An asshole’s forever fuel: BITTER RESENTMENT.

The character pretty much filled themselves in after that: ambitious, status-oriented, wounded, scared, nurtured narcissism, and the kind of existential void that fosters superficial appetites. Dead inside, without knowing or caring why—willingly haunting a life they didn’t choose. Stereotype? Maybe. Compelling? ABSOLUTELY (…I nearly grabbed the belt and lotion).

Then the final questions: Who HATES this guy?

Who HATES the system that created him?

How far are they willing to go for justice?

What’s the ultimate price for selling death?

Queue the Cobain.

Until Next Time,

—Antwan Crump

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If you’d like to support my work (and skip the Ads), you can buy “The Suicide Pod” on: 
Amazon – B&N – KOBO – Google Play Books

Life’s hard, but death ain’t free…

In a near-future America ruled by economic despair and advanced automation, suicide has been monetized—it’s now a lucrative, commission-based industry run by companies like Anubis Technologies, the largest stateside conglomerate dealing in ‘transitional services’. Robert Price, an end-of-life representative, excels at his position, arranging and overseeing legal deaths that promise to end the nightmare. Robert’s stable, middle-class life is afforded by misery and detachment.

When a series of disappearances and threats begins to target him and his colleagues, Robert is pulled into a spiraling nightmare of his own. As the chaos closes in, he must navigate unsettling truths or risk paying the ultimate price.

From the author of Apostate, The Suicide Pod is a taut, addictive, and chilling meditation on consequence and waning humanity. For fans of Black Mirror and high-stakes social satire.