“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Jim. “You probably know me from these school board meetings if you had any viewpoint on the art program cuts last year.”

There were murmurs throughout the small crowd of parents and busybodies. Jim Vakian had been associated with the Deerton school district for years in one way or another. He’d attended the schools K-12, he had been a substitute art teacher until the program was cut, and his father James Vakian Sr. had taught social studies at Deerton High until he had died at his desk while Jim was studying at nearby Osborn University in Cascadia.

“I’m not here to argue for the program’s reinstatement, but I do have something I’d like to say.”

More grumbling. The school board meetings were open to the public, and he bylaws allowed anyone the podium for new business so long as there was time left in the two-hour allotment. But most of the people there were thoroughly sick of Jim Vakian; his lanky frame seemed attached to every bit of counterculture that Deerton could muster, and his attempts to make a living as an artist had drawn the ire of just about everyone in town. That and the fact that living on what an artist could make with the occasional substituting job gave him what Shawn Didier had called a “hippie stink.”

“As many of you know, I am an artist with deep roots in Deerton. I’ve done my best to try and make a living through my art, but since the art program was canceled that’s become impossible, even with the generous donations I’ve received from my public performances.”

Jim’s public performances generally involved posing, prancing, and shouting while covered with a garish mix of body paint and costumes of his own design, “sustainably sourced” from refuse. The hat he put out collected at most a soda pop’s worth of change each time.

“So, I have decided to embark upon one last public performance piece. I call it ‘Anatomy of a Suicide.'”

Jim reached into his bag and produced a wrapped parcel, and an item rolled up in a rag. Setting both on the lectern, he unrolled the rag to reveal a large-caliber revolver.

“I have here a means of ending my life. Each of you will make an argument as to whether you think I should end myself or spare myself, and I will respond. Our interplay will be chance art, found art, at its finest and most raw. When enough art has been made, I will–as my final performance–blow my brains out in front of you, or surrender to the authorities you are probably already dialing on your cell phones.”

Pandemonium. Jim silenced the screaming with a blast from his gun into the Deerton High library roof.

“The package in front of me contains insurance that the performance will not be concluded prematurely,” he added. “A powerful artwork of my own design, explosive enough to reduce this room to a book burning, equipped with a dead man’s switch.” Jim flashed a small something clutched in one hand. “I will deactivate it only when there is no more art to be made.”

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