dieseltrooper
Inactive
Since I seem to have a tough time staying focused and on task, I'd like some input regarding which one to work on...
So here are samples of each...
The Bicycle Militia
Oct 31 2007: Trick or treat for kids was mostly a thing of the past since martial law and curfews were the order of the day now. "Rabbit" had been tasked to play a different kind of "trick" this day, with a swell new treat to follow. Rabbit walked quickly along the decaying sidewalk, humming an old tune form the 80s by Devo: "Step on a crack... Break your momma's back... bum bum bum bum bump..." He didn't worry much about being jumped by teenagers or snatched by a perv. The former had mostly been drafted, the latter had been almost entirely eliminated by "neighborhood watch" units. His chief concern as dusk approached was getting to the corner grocery store to get his Mom some rolling papers for a nightly cigarette and get home before the curfew siren sounded. That, and a little delivery erreand for the local Bicycle militia.
As he approached the intersection, the two-man patrol was there, ready to check your ID, search your car if you were lucky enough to still have a running ride and fuel to run it, or give you a free ride to the nearest detention center if you were out after curfew.
"Hey guys!" Rabbit kept his hands visible as he ambled up to the soldiers. "You better hurry up, kid, it's almost curfew." These no-shit words of wisdom from the one with the shotgun. "Alright, let's pat him down." This from the older one with the radio and sub-machine gun.
"Awww man, again?" Rabbit raised his arms and looked irritated. The younger one with the shotgun proceeded to pat him down and check his pockets. "Not much of a hand ya got here, kid." He was holding two cards fished out of Rabbit's back pocket along with his ID, a deuce and trey of spades. "Yeah, I know. I lost the rest." Rabbit fidgeted uncomfortably. The older one eyed Rabbit and offered "You got a shoe untied, there."
"Oh, yeah." Rabbit went to one knee to tie his shoe, the one he untied on the porch before he left.
<Cra-Crack> Almost simultaneous rifle shots rang out, and the two-man patrol fell, struck in their heads. Rabbit lunged for the bodies, trying to ignore the red, wet spots that now covered his shirt, head, and face. He grabbed the H&K MP5, spare mags, radio and ran for home, trying to supress the urge to vomit.
Raven Roberts(not a title, the character)
Oh God, not again, not another night of this. I've got to wake up,she thought. He was in her room again, muttering loving words that always led to touching. Touching that made her skin crawl off her very body, numbing her so that she wouldn't feel what he did to her. Please stop! I'll be good! I love you, just don't make me do this again....
Blackness, followed by the sound of sobbing.... Wake up! The alarm clock reads 0330. Sleepytime is over for tonight. The dreams came most every night, robbing her of sleep and transporting her back in time, the most efficient time-machne ever created, her own fragmented mind.
In the warm light of day, she felt safe most of the time. But God , she was sooo tired! After a bad night, it felt like she had run a marathon, but with vicious dogs after her and an unmarked minefield ahead.
Guess what,dear, it's a workday.
Shit. Why did you remind me of that?
Because somebody has to go to work,dear, and you don't look up to it.
I'm sorry, I had a really bad night, I can't handle work today.
I know,dear. Rachel says she's on it.
Ok, thank her for me please. Sorry, I'm worthless....
It's ok,dear. It's her job.
I know, but I always let everyone down.
Just get some rest and maybe tonight will be better,dear.
Yeah, I know. You know where to find me....
"Here's your license and registration, Miss Roberts."
"What?" Damn,where are we?
"Your license and registration. Please drive safely."
"Oh. Right. Sorry, I'm a little distracted today." Boy, is that an understatement, she thought. Dammit Rachel, you were speeding again! How much is this ticket going to cost? No answer. Oh well, Rachel did her job. I couldn't work so I guess this is the price today. Hopefully, there won't be any phone calls from guys she had talked to at work. I hate having to pretend I remember what was said, and no, I won't go out with you, thanks. Wait, that would be more Rebecca's thing. She was the flirty one. No problem, we can just work it out in journal, remind everyone of agreements made and go over rules and boundaries again.
Monsters
MONSTERS
I used to think that monsters lived under the bed or in my closet. That they lurked and waited for me to fall asleep so that they could come out and devour me as I muttered my bedtime prayers, or peer at me from the partly open closet door with their yellow,unblinking eyes as I shuddered with fear and drew the covers up over my head in hopes of divine blankie protection from the demonic or alien beings that coveted my soul, or blood, depending on the night.
There also lived in my vivid imagination a dark, spectral being, shapless as a mist, that hovered in the far reaches near my ceiling in one corner or another, depending on which side I was laying on. Some nights, I was convinced that the specter would hover within view to better terrorize me as I strained my eyes, hoping to glimpse it's true form, yet dreading that moment, other nights I persuaded myself that it hovered in the ceiling corner behind me, out of sight, daring me to let sleep overtake me so that it could invade my mind and body for some nameless evil purpose.
Try as I might to fight and delay, sleep always came within ten or fifteen minutes to carry me inside where it was safe and quiet, no monsters, aliens or specters allowed. THIS MEANS YOU! Or so said my mental sign at the front door to my personal dreamland of heroic race-car victories, battling the Krauts/Japs/Commies at The Bulge/Iwo Jima/Chosin resovoir, or just clobbering the school bully.
Yeah, good luck with that, kid. Sooner or later, a bump in the night, a full bladder, or the neighbors cat would drag me kicking and screaming back to conciousness with an adrenaline-fueled start, and a certain knowledge that the monsters were still stalking my room. The worst was when I awoke on the floor after rolling off the bed and facing under the bed,sure I was not alone. After a stealthy walk down the hall to the bathroom, I would creep back, my bladder empty , but my mind full of panicked scenarios involving traps laid by the monsters while I was away. Sometimes I would creep across my room and ease into bed, hoping not to trigger an enemy response. Other times, I would dash form the doorway and leap into bed, as though I were Indiana Jones running a gauntlet of arrows and poisonous snakes.
In every case, I lived to tell the tale. Years later,when we were grown-up and expected to know that monsters were not real, I discovered that there really were monsters, just not in the form I imagined as a boy. No, these monsters look like you and I.... (Intro)
I coud write a book called "101 Ways To Kill A Monster". I cant say that it would sell very well, but no decent publisher would touch it with a ten-foot pole. Fictional books that may serve as a primer on murder and assassination might rate too high on Amazon to be allowed to see the light of day. It would likely be banned if listed on Ebay. Barnes & Noble? Hah! Not only would it never be shelved, you wouldn't be allowed to special order it. I suppose I'll have too look into self-publishing if I ever get around to writing such a cheerful tome. Let us see... Ok,class turn with me to page 51 in your books. Ahhh yesss, separation and display...
"Hey, f*** you, man! I ain't never touched a kid!" He looked almost panicked, but was clearly trying to maintain his composure, despite the "deer in the headlights" look in his eyes.
"Well Eddie, the jury decided you lied about those two girls." My voice was calm and even, even as my anger simmered below the surface.
"F*** them too! I'm on parole! The judge cut me loose, so you can go to hell!"
Defender308
Officer Joe Marsh had just come from briefing before going on duty. His was the 3-11 shift, the most interesting time to work, he thought. Joe liked how the shift passed quickly, with one call for service after another keeping it lively. Except for the damn paperwork that went along with it. That part he would just as soon skip. Fat chance.
It was still quite warm, and although he had the Crown Vic's air conditioning running at a brisk pace, he kept the front windows down in order to hear any sounds that might tip him to trouble nearby. He liked to think of his assigned sector as "His" neighborhood. He wouldn't want to live here, or have his kids enrolled in the nearby high school, that's for sure. It was a low-income area, no doubt about it, but certainly no shortage of pawnshops, bars, and payday loan establishments. Yep, you could say there was a thriving economy here, both legal and otherwise.
Joe saw evidence of the illegal economy every night, familiar faces seen at familiar places, engaging in their own special kind of capitalism. Joe kept a running log of notes,which he turned into reports, good intel for the drug boys downtown. You had to wonder why little seemed to change here at the street level. Sure, busts were made, but the song remained the same and Meth was the piper calling the tune these days.
She used to have dreams,she thought somewhat absently, as she chopped the crystalline powder into neat ordered lines. Lines that were likely the only ordered thing in her life now. All else had spiraled into chaos since her introduction to "ice" two years ago. Oh well.... Once she snorted the neat ordered lines, she wouldn't care about those dreams anymore. The ice was here,the ice was now, and it was all she dreamed of anymore...
It was dusk now, the heat of the afternoon sun replaced by a lazy, humid warmth that would last well into the evening. Joe Marsh turned left onto 23rd, hoping to grab a burrito at the Taco Bell before the next call. The radio was quiet for now, but soon it would have plenty to say. Domestic this, drunken that, and don't forget the "shots fired" calls. At least those were good for an adrenaline rush.
Before he made it to the Taco Bell, Joe observed an individual he knew, a known street dealer named Kyle Johnston, street name "Iceman". He was stepping away from a pay phone, no doubt having concluded a "business meeting" of some kind. Joe pulled to the curb, approaching with caution, since "Iceman" was probably "tweaking", hopped up and edgy as hell. "Hey Ice!", he called. "Whatcha doin,man?"
"I ain't doin shit,man!" was the immediate, and expected response. "What the **** you want?" Ok, he was being chatty tonight, very social, and therfore not in possession of anything worth Officer Marsh's time before lunch.
"Nothin from you, dirtbag!", Joe said, ready to pull away and go to lunch. "Iceman's" mouth started to form yet another pleasant response, which Joe would never hear, since there was a shot and Kyle Johnston's head exploded in a pink mist that decorated Joe Marsh's Crown Victoria with blood and brains.
"Shit!" Joe Marsh gunned the engine and accelerated out of what he considered to be "kill zone", not knowing who was shooting or who the intended target was. "Shots fired, 800 block ne 23rd, one victim down, I need backup now!"
Pedestrians scattered like sheep and ran for safety, hoping there would be no more gunfire, except for a single homeless man who stood, holding one hand on his shopping cart and the other hand pointing down the street at a four-story brick building sporting a faded Coca-Cola mural.
Hopefully, other units would be here quick, he prayed, bringing the Crown Vic to a stop in a defensive position 50 yards from "Ice" who was now rapidly assuming room temperature, lying in a dark pool of his blood. The radio crackled to life with multiple calls from responding units. That's one of the bonuses of being a cop, Joe thought as he unlocked his shotgun from it's mount.... Always having backup.
Within two minutes, six units had arrived on the scene, arraying themselves to secure the scene and protect their fellow officer. A supervisor showed up a minute or so later to sort out what happened, followed by an ambulance to verify the obvious: Kyle Johnston would never deal "Ice" again.
"Well damn,Joe, it looks like you're gettin all the action tonight." It was Sargeant Don Thompson, a ten year veteran of the force, who wore his moustache like Sam Elliot, way beyond department regs.
"I don't know,Sarge. I was harassing Iceman and someone fragged him. It wasn't a drive-by and I'll bet you a dozen donuts it was rifle, judging by the sound. I saw one possible witness to the shooter, the homeless guy with the cart."
"Great, a reliable witness." Sargeant Thompson made air quotation marks with his hands. "Ok,the crime scene crew will be here soon, let's set up a one-block perimeter to keep the newsies out of our hair."
"Ok,Sarge."
The post-mortem was fairly routine,time of death was noted on Officer Marsh's report. No mystery there, thought Carlos "The Jackal" Virga, as he zipped the bodybag closed and attached a new seal to preserve the chain of custody. Maybe someone would claim the body, maybe not. Cause of death, gunshot wound to the head, entry at a 35 degree down angle thru the upper-right parietal bone and exiting near the left eye socket. All in all, no great loss to society. After all the domestic violence victims, the children, and sexual assault homicides, he just could not find a shred of sympathy for Kyle Johnston. Maybe he had been raised in an abusive home, or was economically disadvantaged. Perhaps Dad had given him little in the way of love and attention. Even so, Kyle Johnston had made a series of free-will choices that had ended here, on the cold, stainless steel table. "The Jackal" shed his latex gloves and clocked out.
"Good morning, I'm Jack Wallace and this is Good Morning Oklahoma." "In the news this morning, authorities have little to go on to investigate the shooting of Kyle Johnston in the 800 block of Northeast 23rd last night at around 7:30. Officer Joe Marsh witnessed the shooting,but was uninjured. Police are questioning one possible witness that may have seen the shooter and are unwilling to call this shooting a "Sniper" case. We will follow up and have an update this evening."
It was a crisp,cold December day. The sky was cloud and chem free, with little or no breeze. It was a good day, I decided. As fine a day as there had been since Sara died.
The view was magnificent from my position near a window on the third floor of a boarded up warehouse. Business had really died out as this area had deteriorated. Crime and drugs now thrived here.
Presently, I was watching three individuals milling around a bus stop. As it was Sunday, there was no bus traffic, but a steady stream of other vehicles pulled up to the bus stop. A brief conversation, money changed hands, and the vehicles sped away, having accomplished their intended mission.
Good, now it was time for what I came for.
I carefully inserted a single 7.62 NATO cartridge into the action and closed the bolt. I gently laid the rifle across the rest I had assembled from a desk, chair, and rolled blanket. Looking through the scope, the three individuals were revealed in detail. One smoked camels, another wore Nike's. The third was always on his cellphone, the Nokia with an aftermarket faux chrome cover.
No matter, it was time. I centered the reticle on the head of the cellphone user, exhaled, and fired.
I didn't stay to observe the reaction of the other two. Now was the time to leave the area by my pre-planned route. Tonight sleep would come easy and I would see Sara. I would see her the way she looked before the meth took her away.
So here are samples of each...The Bicycle Militia
Oct 31 2007: Trick or treat for kids was mostly a thing of the past since martial law and curfews were the order of the day now. "Rabbit" had been tasked to play a different kind of "trick" this day, with a swell new treat to follow. Rabbit walked quickly along the decaying sidewalk, humming an old tune form the 80s by Devo: "Step on a crack... Break your momma's back... bum bum bum bum bump..." He didn't worry much about being jumped by teenagers or snatched by a perv. The former had mostly been drafted, the latter had been almost entirely eliminated by "neighborhood watch" units. His chief concern as dusk approached was getting to the corner grocery store to get his Mom some rolling papers for a nightly cigarette and get home before the curfew siren sounded. That, and a little delivery erreand for the local Bicycle militia.
As he approached the intersection, the two-man patrol was there, ready to check your ID, search your car if you were lucky enough to still have a running ride and fuel to run it, or give you a free ride to the nearest detention center if you were out after curfew.
"Hey guys!" Rabbit kept his hands visible as he ambled up to the soldiers. "You better hurry up, kid, it's almost curfew." These no-shit words of wisdom from the one with the shotgun. "Alright, let's pat him down." This from the older one with the radio and sub-machine gun.
"Awww man, again?" Rabbit raised his arms and looked irritated. The younger one with the shotgun proceeded to pat him down and check his pockets. "Not much of a hand ya got here, kid." He was holding two cards fished out of Rabbit's back pocket along with his ID, a deuce and trey of spades. "Yeah, I know. I lost the rest." Rabbit fidgeted uncomfortably. The older one eyed Rabbit and offered "You got a shoe untied, there."
"Oh, yeah." Rabbit went to one knee to tie his shoe, the one he untied on the porch before he left.
<Cra-Crack> Almost simultaneous rifle shots rang out, and the two-man patrol fell, struck in their heads. Rabbit lunged for the bodies, trying to ignore the red, wet spots that now covered his shirt, head, and face. He grabbed the H&K MP5, spare mags, radio and ran for home, trying to supress the urge to vomit.
Raven Roberts(not a title, the character)
Oh God, not again, not another night of this. I've got to wake up,she thought. He was in her room again, muttering loving words that always led to touching. Touching that made her skin crawl off her very body, numbing her so that she wouldn't feel what he did to her. Please stop! I'll be good! I love you, just don't make me do this again....
Blackness, followed by the sound of sobbing.... Wake up! The alarm clock reads 0330. Sleepytime is over for tonight. The dreams came most every night, robbing her of sleep and transporting her back in time, the most efficient time-machne ever created, her own fragmented mind.
In the warm light of day, she felt safe most of the time. But God , she was sooo tired! After a bad night, it felt like she had run a marathon, but with vicious dogs after her and an unmarked minefield ahead.
Guess what,dear, it's a workday.
Shit. Why did you remind me of that?
Because somebody has to go to work,dear, and you don't look up to it.
I'm sorry, I had a really bad night, I can't handle work today.
I know,dear. Rachel says she's on it.
Ok, thank her for me please. Sorry, I'm worthless....
It's ok,dear. It's her job.
I know, but I always let everyone down.
Just get some rest and maybe tonight will be better,dear.
Yeah, I know. You know where to find me....
"Here's your license and registration, Miss Roberts."
"What?" Damn,where are we?
"Your license and registration. Please drive safely."
"Oh. Right. Sorry, I'm a little distracted today." Boy, is that an understatement, she thought. Dammit Rachel, you were speeding again! How much is this ticket going to cost? No answer. Oh well, Rachel did her job. I couldn't work so I guess this is the price today. Hopefully, there won't be any phone calls from guys she had talked to at work. I hate having to pretend I remember what was said, and no, I won't go out with you, thanks. Wait, that would be more Rebecca's thing. She was the flirty one. No problem, we can just work it out in journal, remind everyone of agreements made and go over rules and boundaries again.
Monsters
MONSTERS
I used to think that monsters lived under the bed or in my closet. That they lurked and waited for me to fall asleep so that they could come out and devour me as I muttered my bedtime prayers, or peer at me from the partly open closet door with their yellow,unblinking eyes as I shuddered with fear and drew the covers up over my head in hopes of divine blankie protection from the demonic or alien beings that coveted my soul, or blood, depending on the night.
There also lived in my vivid imagination a dark, spectral being, shapless as a mist, that hovered in the far reaches near my ceiling in one corner or another, depending on which side I was laying on. Some nights, I was convinced that the specter would hover within view to better terrorize me as I strained my eyes, hoping to glimpse it's true form, yet dreading that moment, other nights I persuaded myself that it hovered in the ceiling corner behind me, out of sight, daring me to let sleep overtake me so that it could invade my mind and body for some nameless evil purpose.
Try as I might to fight and delay, sleep always came within ten or fifteen minutes to carry me inside where it was safe and quiet, no monsters, aliens or specters allowed. THIS MEANS YOU! Or so said my mental sign at the front door to my personal dreamland of heroic race-car victories, battling the Krauts/Japs/Commies at The Bulge/Iwo Jima/Chosin resovoir, or just clobbering the school bully.
Yeah, good luck with that, kid. Sooner or later, a bump in the night, a full bladder, or the neighbors cat would drag me kicking and screaming back to conciousness with an adrenaline-fueled start, and a certain knowledge that the monsters were still stalking my room. The worst was when I awoke on the floor after rolling off the bed and facing under the bed,sure I was not alone. After a stealthy walk down the hall to the bathroom, I would creep back, my bladder empty , but my mind full of panicked scenarios involving traps laid by the monsters while I was away. Sometimes I would creep across my room and ease into bed, hoping not to trigger an enemy response. Other times, I would dash form the doorway and leap into bed, as though I were Indiana Jones running a gauntlet of arrows and poisonous snakes.
In every case, I lived to tell the tale. Years later,when we were grown-up and expected to know that monsters were not real, I discovered that there really were monsters, just not in the form I imagined as a boy. No, these monsters look like you and I.... (Intro)
I coud write a book called "101 Ways To Kill A Monster". I cant say that it would sell very well, but no decent publisher would touch it with a ten-foot pole. Fictional books that may serve as a primer on murder and assassination might rate too high on Amazon to be allowed to see the light of day. It would likely be banned if listed on Ebay. Barnes & Noble? Hah! Not only would it never be shelved, you wouldn't be allowed to special order it. I suppose I'll have too look into self-publishing if I ever get around to writing such a cheerful tome. Let us see... Ok,class turn with me to page 51 in your books. Ahhh yesss, separation and display...
"Hey, f*** you, man! I ain't never touched a kid!" He looked almost panicked, but was clearly trying to maintain his composure, despite the "deer in the headlights" look in his eyes.
"Well Eddie, the jury decided you lied about those two girls." My voice was calm and even, even as my anger simmered below the surface.
"F*** them too! I'm on parole! The judge cut me loose, so you can go to hell!"
Defender308
Officer Joe Marsh had just come from briefing before going on duty. His was the 3-11 shift, the most interesting time to work, he thought. Joe liked how the shift passed quickly, with one call for service after another keeping it lively. Except for the damn paperwork that went along with it. That part he would just as soon skip. Fat chance.
It was still quite warm, and although he had the Crown Vic's air conditioning running at a brisk pace, he kept the front windows down in order to hear any sounds that might tip him to trouble nearby. He liked to think of his assigned sector as "His" neighborhood. He wouldn't want to live here, or have his kids enrolled in the nearby high school, that's for sure. It was a low-income area, no doubt about it, but certainly no shortage of pawnshops, bars, and payday loan establishments. Yep, you could say there was a thriving economy here, both legal and otherwise.
Joe saw evidence of the illegal economy every night, familiar faces seen at familiar places, engaging in their own special kind of capitalism. Joe kept a running log of notes,which he turned into reports, good intel for the drug boys downtown. You had to wonder why little seemed to change here at the street level. Sure, busts were made, but the song remained the same and Meth was the piper calling the tune these days.
She used to have dreams,she thought somewhat absently, as she chopped the crystalline powder into neat ordered lines. Lines that were likely the only ordered thing in her life now. All else had spiraled into chaos since her introduction to "ice" two years ago. Oh well.... Once she snorted the neat ordered lines, she wouldn't care about those dreams anymore. The ice was here,the ice was now, and it was all she dreamed of anymore...
It was dusk now, the heat of the afternoon sun replaced by a lazy, humid warmth that would last well into the evening. Joe Marsh turned left onto 23rd, hoping to grab a burrito at the Taco Bell before the next call. The radio was quiet for now, but soon it would have plenty to say. Domestic this, drunken that, and don't forget the "shots fired" calls. At least those were good for an adrenaline rush.
Before he made it to the Taco Bell, Joe observed an individual he knew, a known street dealer named Kyle Johnston, street name "Iceman". He was stepping away from a pay phone, no doubt having concluded a "business meeting" of some kind. Joe pulled to the curb, approaching with caution, since "Iceman" was probably "tweaking", hopped up and edgy as hell. "Hey Ice!", he called. "Whatcha doin,man?"
"I ain't doin shit,man!" was the immediate, and expected response. "What the **** you want?" Ok, he was being chatty tonight, very social, and therfore not in possession of anything worth Officer Marsh's time before lunch.
"Nothin from you, dirtbag!", Joe said, ready to pull away and go to lunch. "Iceman's" mouth started to form yet another pleasant response, which Joe would never hear, since there was a shot and Kyle Johnston's head exploded in a pink mist that decorated Joe Marsh's Crown Victoria with blood and brains.
"Shit!" Joe Marsh gunned the engine and accelerated out of what he considered to be "kill zone", not knowing who was shooting or who the intended target was. "Shots fired, 800 block ne 23rd, one victim down, I need backup now!"
Pedestrians scattered like sheep and ran for safety, hoping there would be no more gunfire, except for a single homeless man who stood, holding one hand on his shopping cart and the other hand pointing down the street at a four-story brick building sporting a faded Coca-Cola mural.
Hopefully, other units would be here quick, he prayed, bringing the Crown Vic to a stop in a defensive position 50 yards from "Ice" who was now rapidly assuming room temperature, lying in a dark pool of his blood. The radio crackled to life with multiple calls from responding units. That's one of the bonuses of being a cop, Joe thought as he unlocked his shotgun from it's mount.... Always having backup.
Within two minutes, six units had arrived on the scene, arraying themselves to secure the scene and protect their fellow officer. A supervisor showed up a minute or so later to sort out what happened, followed by an ambulance to verify the obvious: Kyle Johnston would never deal "Ice" again.
"Well damn,Joe, it looks like you're gettin all the action tonight." It was Sargeant Don Thompson, a ten year veteran of the force, who wore his moustache like Sam Elliot, way beyond department regs.
"I don't know,Sarge. I was harassing Iceman and someone fragged him. It wasn't a drive-by and I'll bet you a dozen donuts it was rifle, judging by the sound. I saw one possible witness to the shooter, the homeless guy with the cart."
"Great, a reliable witness." Sargeant Thompson made air quotation marks with his hands. "Ok,the crime scene crew will be here soon, let's set up a one-block perimeter to keep the newsies out of our hair."
"Ok,Sarge."
The post-mortem was fairly routine,time of death was noted on Officer Marsh's report. No mystery there, thought Carlos "The Jackal" Virga, as he zipped the bodybag closed and attached a new seal to preserve the chain of custody. Maybe someone would claim the body, maybe not. Cause of death, gunshot wound to the head, entry at a 35 degree down angle thru the upper-right parietal bone and exiting near the left eye socket. All in all, no great loss to society. After all the domestic violence victims, the children, and sexual assault homicides, he just could not find a shred of sympathy for Kyle Johnston. Maybe he had been raised in an abusive home, or was economically disadvantaged. Perhaps Dad had given him little in the way of love and attention. Even so, Kyle Johnston had made a series of free-will choices that had ended here, on the cold, stainless steel table. "The Jackal" shed his latex gloves and clocked out.
"Good morning, I'm Jack Wallace and this is Good Morning Oklahoma." "In the news this morning, authorities have little to go on to investigate the shooting of Kyle Johnston in the 800 block of Northeast 23rd last night at around 7:30. Officer Joe Marsh witnessed the shooting,but was uninjured. Police are questioning one possible witness that may have seen the shooter and are unwilling to call this shooting a "Sniper" case. We will follow up and have an update this evening."
It was a crisp,cold December day. The sky was cloud and chem free, with little or no breeze. It was a good day, I decided. As fine a day as there had been since Sara died.
The view was magnificent from my position near a window on the third floor of a boarded up warehouse. Business had really died out as this area had deteriorated. Crime and drugs now thrived here.
Presently, I was watching three individuals milling around a bus stop. As it was Sunday, there was no bus traffic, but a steady stream of other vehicles pulled up to the bus stop. A brief conversation, money changed hands, and the vehicles sped away, having accomplished their intended mission.
Good, now it was time for what I came for.
I carefully inserted a single 7.62 NATO cartridge into the action and closed the bolt. I gently laid the rifle across the rest I had assembled from a desk, chair, and rolled blanket. Looking through the scope, the three individuals were revealed in detail. One smoked camels, another wore Nike's. The third was always on his cellphone, the Nokia with an aftermarket faux chrome cover.
No matter, it was time. I centered the reticle on the head of the cellphone user, exhaled, and fired.
I didn't stay to observe the reaction of the other two. Now was the time to leave the area by my pre-planned route. Tonight sleep would come easy and I would see Sara. I would see her the way she looked before the meth took her away.
