It was going as planned and everyone was enjoying the evening, but little did they know what was about to happen. Like innocent strangers in a McDonald's before a crazed gunman, or a disgruntled postal worker at the end of his shift (and rope)-- all of the rage inside me was accumulating like a dentist drill moving closer to my nerve.

The cold steel in my jacket pocket felt heavy against my waist, and the sweat lining my collar was growing. As Fran laughed, rubbing elbows with Greg, I watched her simple face of lesbian attitude and gruff superiority spread across the dining table like an infectious disease-claiming her power in a room full of men.

Homosexuals. Would they label my act of violence a hate crime? Or was it the simple story of a man who could take his life no more, acting out against his uncontrollable anger and loneliness? It didn't matter.

My eyes moved to Drew and Eric, the happy couple. Sure, their testament to each other was supposed to be from love, but to me it came from their incapacity to love themselves as individuals. They NEEDED each other in order to function, made obvious by their plight to sex therapy and counseling. Jesus Christ, throw in the towel already and move the hell on. Do you two really think that making a declaration of marriage to each other will save you from your own inevitable demise into becoming two old fags, hovering above skin mags, clutching your youth in naked pictures of pretty boys?

The barrel of the revolver in my pocket was itching to turn. I could feel it in the palm of my hand as I sat back down at the table, my hand clutching the handle and my finger feeling the pulse of the trigger. Is this what that hitman felt- cold sweat and power? Where the hell was that son-of-a-bitch anyway, lying to me about killing Peter? I knew all of this was going to explode-only a matter of time. Peter still lay tied to his bed, I'm sure. I made sure those knots were tight. Almost as if God had spared his life the first time, I couldn't do it the second time. But if sex is power...

I could stand up at any moment and just start firing-taking careful aim as I began to blow them all away one by one. Hillary, beside me, the fat chick who looked vaguely familiar, would become an innocent victim-another statistic of being in the wrong place at the wrong time that would be reported in the Los Angeles Times Metro section the next day. How would the headline read? "CRAZED GUNMAN KILLS FRIENDS" "DINNER PARTY TURNS TO TRAGEDY" "SIX PEOPLE FOUND DEAD" "GUNMAN KILLS FRIENDS, SELF"

I wondered in that instant what would happen once everyone was dead and I put the gun in my mouth. Would I join the others in another dimension, on some other plane, and have to explain my actions? Or would I simply disappear into the darkness-of nothingness?

I had so many questions and the answers were lingering closer.

"Steve, thank you so much," said Greg, and I could see the earnest humility in his eyes. "I think we all really needed this." And he took my hand, squeezing it.

In that instant, I suddenly doubted what I was about to do. I had committed Barbra's murder, but did that mean my unraveling would continue? The guilt was overwhelming.

But as Greg looked away, returning to the shallow conversation with Hillary about art and the meaning of this horrible thing called life-my rage returned.

I stood up at the end of the table as the conversation continued until slowly, one by one, everyone turned in silence.

"Steve...?" asked Hillary, and suddenly her voice pierced my soul-a mixture of familial concern and love. Would this be the last word I would hear, other than their screams of pain, before I turned the gun on myself and the bullet entered the back of my throat?

My hand gripped the revolver harder, the sweat now trickling down the rear of my neck between my shoulders.

Everyone stared at me in the quiet, their uneasiness growing, as their eyes began to glance between me and themselves in the awkward silence.

And then it happened. The dentist drill hit the nerve.

I pulled out my hand from the jacket pocket, clutching the black revolver. I heard everyone react in horror, my hand trembling in fear, as I pointed the gun barrel across the table.

I could feel my legs shaking, my entire body vibrating from head to toe. Glassware across the table began to fall, some wineglasses SHATTERING onto the floor.

But my finger remained firm on the steel trigger and as I looked up, I saw framed posters on the walls suddenly tilting to the side-and falling to the ground.

Before I knew it, I was falling to the ground-- Hillary on top of me, her hand clutching the gun, raising it above my head. The gun FIRED and everyone SCREAMED.

As I lay on the ground, Hillary struggling on top of me, I literally felt the ground moving. Glass continued to fall from the table, coffee cups and plates crashed from behind the Mocha Daze counter. Greg landed on my other side-lunging at my back like a lion on a zebra-and in that instant I realized we were having an earthquake.

Hillary wrestled the gun away from me when I saw her hair come off her scalp and realized it was a wig. Soon Mike was on top of me as well, pinning me to the ground as the earth slowly ceased shaking, Hillary pointing the gun in my face.

Her brown eyes looked familiar, and in the closeness of her face, I saw my father Hugo-staring me down.The gasps around me were audible, and I realized they saw it too in her disheveled wig.

While she looked like a woman, she wasn't. Hillary was not who she said she was.