Eighteen

To: tro14@ncr.tr.com
From: 44cal@ncr.ss.com
Subject: Washington, D.C.

Dear Troy,
It’s all cool. I’m in town. Getting close now, man.
44

Traffic. Stuck in traffic. Always stuck in traffic. His daily commute was an hour each way; he’d taken a week off to play the game and was so excited not to have to deal with the mind-numbing lemming cars, stacked one on top of the other, crawling along. But here he was on the Beltway, late. Late was not good. The schedule was vital.

Shit, shit, shit. If he didn’t make this kill and report in on time, he’d be eliminated.

His leg started bouncing, making the car jerk forward. He managed to slam on the brake just before ramming into the fender of the Infiniti G35 in front of him. Phew. That was close.

The angel shouted at him. Don’t draw attention to yourself. You must be invisible. Invisible. Invisible. Invisible.

He hated this. He didn’t want to be invisible. He wanted to be splashy, huge. Famous. He wanted to have legions of fans, women who wanted to marry him, who sent him their stained underwear. He wanted to be the celebrity of death row. Jail wasn’t so bad. He’d done a few years in his early twenties and hadn’t thought it was that big a deal. Maximum-security might be a little different, but not much. Jail was jail, man, no matter where you slept and who tossed your salad. He was a good-looking guy, too—the beard made him look like Seth Rogen. The jail bunnies wouldn’t be able to keep their eyes off him.

Death row was where it was at. They never really killed people off, not regularly, and not quickly, either. The death row inmates spent twenty, thirty, hell, forty years in play, never having to work, commute, deal with traffic. They had computers and books, three squares a day, time outside to exercise. It was fucking cushy, that was what it was. He wanted in. No more dealing with others if he didn’t want to—he could just do something egregious and sit it out in solitary. Yes, this sounded perfect to him. An escape. He didn’t care if he ever got out. And losing his life, well, it would be worth it.

You’d be dead, homey. And what would happen to me, huh? Where am I supposed to go if you get yourself electrocuted?

Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up.

If he stuck to the plan, to the letter of the law that had been handed down, he could have that freedom. He could go on a spree, the spree to end all sprees, the one that would live in infamy. He’d gun them all down—the entire fourth floor of the building would lie in their own blood and sick. But he wouldn’t cop out by taking his own life, no, no. He would lean into his lawyer at sentencing and laugh at the judge, show no remorse at his trial. He’d be the biggest sensation they’d ever seen.

That’s better. Go to the crazy house. Tell them you’ve got a head full of crazy. They let you smoke, and fuck in there. Pills galore. The orderlies, you know what I mean? You catch my drift, brother?

Yes, all right. I get it.

The dashboard clock read 8:40 p.m. He rolled down the window, lit an American Spirit. Blew smoke into the chilly fog outside his car. He had to be at the landing by ten if he was going to catch them. Traffic began to move, sluggish at first, then picking up speed. Divine intervention.

He took the exit for the George Washington Parkway, paying close attention now. The park was after downtown, he knew that because of the map. The cars all came with navigation now—that was so cool. Even so, he sometimes got distracted—bullshit, you just a crazy fucker—and he didn’t want to miss the turn. Even in daylight, assignations were made in the park. But it was totally dark in there now, and he’d have his pick of paths to follow.

He fingered the suppressor, feeling the rough edges where he’d filed it down to fit his gun. This was the fun part. He loved the few moments before he went in for the kill. Wiping the abnormal bastards off the face of the earth was a pleasure; he was more than happy when he was assigned that subsection of the list. More than happy. It didn’t matter that he had a few latent tendencies himself, that he fantasized late at night about the center of another man.

You’re not a homo, man. Don’t worry. Would I let you be a homo? Homey ain’t no homo.

The angel started to laugh, holding his belly, rolling back so far that he tipped right off his shoulder. He felt him crawling around his back, trying to get his footing. He leaned back in the seat and tried to smush him, ignored the squeaks.

Fucker.

No one needed to know about his…his…proclivities. That was his secret, one he even kept from the angel, who was climbing back onto his shoulder, mildly out of breath.

Ain’t no secrets from me, homey. I know what a trick you are.

Shut. Up!

When he went to jail, where it was expected, then he could indulge. In the meantime, he’d annihilate the abnormal ones who flaunted their desires.

The entrance to the park was on his right. He swerved into the parking lot. Licked his lips. The angel hung on to his ear for balance, and they both smiled. This was getting good. This was getting really good.