Vigilantism Story Part 1

(Warning: Adult content, graphic violence and explicit sexual material.)

Highway 80 in my black 1967 GTO. Licking my thumb and rubbing the brown spots on my navy blue sleeve. Just moments ago, I walked out of a gas station after prepaying for gas. I hate prepaying, but I’m trying to avoid credit cards. Two men stood just outside laughing about faggots and niggers. I slit their throats- two smooth movements, backhand and forehand; those tennis lessons are finally paying off. The pair wasn’t so cocky then, eyes wide, clutching at their gaping wounds with shaky fingers. I wonder what it feels like to touch your own spine, terrifying, I hope. I’m bummed about getting arterial spray on my new hoodie, I just got it yesterday.

Gasping for air, drowning in their own blood, face down on the cold pavement outside a gas station is more dignity than these men deserve. It is certainly more than they allowed Ricky Anderson when they took turns sodomizing him. It is more than they allowed David Hunter before they threw his beaten and bound body in the river after killing his family. Have you ever watched your family as they are mercilessly beaten to death while you’re forced to watch? That’s what they did to David. They raped his mother with his baseball bat and made him taste it. He was only ten. One of them went free on a plea deal and the other was paroled after just eight years of a life sentence. That’s how the justice system works. “Good behavior” is noted in his prison file. Good behavior, can you fucking believe that?

Confusion ensued as I pumped my gas. Some people screamed and ran away while others gawked around in silence. An 80’s rock ballad bellowed from the overhead speakers. God has such a sick sense of humor.

Next week they’ll all be on my couch, one by one, blaming themselves for something they couldn’t have prevented. One little girl standing near the entrance had witnessed the slayings. She held a bottle of soda in one hand and a half eaten hotdog in the other. Her pin straight, blonde hair trailed across her pale face as she watched me pump gas. She knew. She knew and she liked it. She was dark inside like me, I could tell, I can always tell. If she were older, I’d want to fuck her. She sipped her soda and held my gaze until a woman scooped her up and whisked her to safety.

The gas pump slowed to a crawl for the final few cents. I prematurely hung up the nozzle. Those final few moments drive me crazy. 

And, now, here I am making my getaway, so to speak. Really, there is no rush. What appeared to be an impulsive, random act of violence was actually a carefully planned, calculated act of revenge. My associates and I had orchestrated this kill days ago. There would be no damning security camera footage or credible eye witnesses.


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