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No … the man I’m looking at right now is.
His picture, as is his address, is on my phone when I get out of the car and open the back to take out my tools. Two black gloves, a mask that I wear, a poncho … and an ax.
Humming a tune, I check my surroundings before stuffing the poncho and ax in a bag and closing the trunk again. Then I make my way to his home.
Harrold Magus, one of the richest men in town … is also a fraud. His wealth came over the backs of hardworking people who he scammed out of money, then gambled it off in the stock markets. Time and time again, he got away with it, paying off the police and judges.
Not anymore.
I jump over the small fence and check my surroundings for nosy neighbors before I go to his house. It’s dark inside, except for one light turned on in the bedroom. Perfect.
With a plastic card, I gain entry into his home and close the door behind me without making a sound. Slowly, I tread through the house, checking each room for people before I make my way upstairs.
Adrenaline rushes through my veins as I go up the staircase, and his shadow appears on the door.
He’s right there, brushing his teeth in the bathroom.
I quietly place the bag on the floor and take out the poncho, putting it on. Then I take out the ax and approach.
My tongue dips out from excitement the closer I get.
Oh … yes. This is going to be magnificent.
One hit and he’s down.
Blood sprays everywhere.
Not a sound except the smashing of his skull against the floor.
Another hit and he’s surely gone forever. Smothered like a bug. Vanished from this earth like the unwanted virus he is. He won’t be a fucking bloodsucker anymore.
I pull my ax from his body and clean it in the sink before putting it back in my bag along with the poncho. Then I casually stroll down the stairs, whistling that same tune from before.
The world can rest peacefully tonight.
The justice system might fail from time to time, but I won’t.
I’ll make sure there’s justice where there’s evil. No matter the price.
Chapter Eight
Accompanying Song: “Highway Snow” by Jeff Russo
Chase
Age sixteen
Killers aren’t born. They’re made.
I was always a troubled boy. But my parents never gave it a second thought. They never paid much attention to me anyway. I was a burden. Something that shouldn’t have existed.
It was no wonder I eventually ended up in foster care with a mother who disappeared and a father who drank himself to death.
But bored little boys who are angry with society, angry with their parents, do things they shouldn’t.
They start to punish other little boys for doing bad things.
Pulling underwear over their head when they peed on the toilet seat.
Hitting them with a stick when they bullied others.
Giving them bloodied and broken noses when they stole candy.
I did it all and worse.
It was never enough to satiate my insane appetite for justice.
The little boy grew up, but he always kept punishing people. The older he got, the more tools he used, and the easier it became to hide behind a mask.
But nothing ever prepared him for his first murder.
When I’m in a store to buy a gift for a friend, a man comes staggering in. Grabbing a bottle of liquor, he wobbles to the cash register. But instead of paying, he pulls out a gun.
The cashier doesn’t know what to do. Panics. Begins to cry.
The man threatens him. Holds him under shot.
The cashier reaches for something underneath the register. The drunken man screams.
I tackle him from behind.
We fight over the gun. In the heat of the moment, it goes off.
But instead of it aiming to kill me … it kills him.
It takes a while for my brain to register what has happened.
But the elation and euphoria surging through my body are unmistakable.
My first kill.
And I grin … because I already knew this would only be the beginning of something beyond this world.
Something monstrous.
Me.
Accompanying Song: “Animal” by Missio
Syrena
In the middle of the night, he comes home.
When the door closes, I slide toward the door in my room and listen to the sounds. His steps are soft but still audible.
Where the hell did he come from? And why did he come home so late?
Was it for his job? Or did he go do something else?
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I slowly open the door and listen to the sounds. He turns on the lights and water gushes out of the faucet in the bathroom.
I approach the noise and grasp the door opening.
Suddenly, metal clatters into the sink. It sounds like the soap dispenser.
“Fuck,” he hisses, the water splashing everywhere, even onto my skin. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Sorry,” I say.
