Thirty-One

To: troy14@ncr.tr.com
From: 44cal@ncr.ss.com
Subject: Charleston, WV

Dear Troy,
Rocking in the free world.
44

“I could do it right here. Right now.

“Fucking McDonald’s. Happy, nasty children playing. I’ve got the AK, it’s loaded and ready to go. I could just spray them all. That would get their attention.”

Not such a good idea, homey. There aren’t enough. You need more. Many, many more.

He counted them—fourteen. His rancor subsided. The angel was right, fourteen wasn’t enough. He needed to make it a proper mass killing. Like that rag head down in Texas. He put on quite a show, but the dumb fucker got himself shot and was paralyzed. No, suicide by cop wouldn’t work. He didn’t want to die, not now, at least. He had things he wanted to do. Books to read. Especially that, and if he managed a death penalty case, he’d have years to fill.

He loved to read.

I love to read, too. Remember that great one, about the stalker who cuts the woman in half?

“Hush. I’m trying to think here.”

No, he needed to make sure he was in Tennessee before he went postal. They killed their criminals dead, dead, dead, dead. And death row was his goal. He giggled. Going postal. That was exactly what he was going to do. Falling Down, like Michael Douglas when he lost his shit and went on that righteous spree. That was cool, but Douglas was weak in the end. That was before his facelift, too. What stupid motherfucking man got a facelift?

He’d enjoyed killing those faggots in the park in D.C. They hadn’t expected him, the Avenger, to glide up to them and open fire. The look on their faces was priceless. They were about to ask him to join their little party, to be a third. Probably wanted him to be on bottom. Dickwads.

The angel start to rap. All the little dickwads, sitting in a row. Pow. Kapow. Blammo, and so. You’re dead. You’re dead. You’re dead, and gone-o.

A thought came to him. A big, beautiful thought. He could find a gay bar. They are always crowded, every night of the week. Oh, imagine that. A whole room full of the abnormal assholes. He knew there was a gay bar in Nashville, a big one. He could go in there, shoot it up. Mow. Them. Down. Oh, my. Oh, that was just perfect.

He got goose bumps, felt them parading up and down his body. His erection was nearly instantaneous. Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

The angel was quiet for once, savoring the idea. Fuck the game. Fuck that twisted asshole running it. He was done playing by other people’s rules. He was in control now.

He reset his GPS. Instead of stopping in Louisville and shooting the senator’s gay-as-a-three-dollar-bill aide like he was supposed to, he was heading straight for Nashville.

Good plan, homey. You’re finally getting it.

He lit a cigarette, looked at the bottle of medicine in the console. Rolled down the window and threw it in the trash, followed a moment later by the still-lit cigarette. He was going for broke. No more pretending, no more pills. No more games. Screw the target, that Jackson bitch. He didn’t care about her anyway.

I’m coming for you, motherfuckahs.

Kill the gays, kill the gays, kill the gays.

The angel yelled, Wheeeeeeee.