A Pretty Rotten Bastard
Written by castor :: [Saturday, 19 December 2015 05:22] Last updated by :: [Sunday, 10 January 2016 11:52]
A Pretty Rotten Bastard
(Special thanks to Dru for Editing and proofreading.)
The gunman smirked as he suddenly raised his weapon and fired it at the woman.
The shot had been to cover his escape by shooting into the crowd. To get the police on the defensive, holding it off, a random target. He was fleeing a robbery gone bad, he didn't bother to see any detail of it other than he shot.
About half way down the alley he thought: I'm a murderer. He at last had taken another person’s life. It went through his head and out the other end without regret.
It was the logical extension. All of his life had been a bad seed, without much though or regard for others. As a kid he tortured lizards for fun. As a teen he turned into a punk, then a stickup man and sometimes muscle. He was a career criminal not that long into his life, and it could be said he was suited. There were few things he quite as liked: Not sex, not Drugs … not even money if he was honest … as much as hurting people and things if no people where present.
By the time he got to the end of the other alley he smiled.
That night he went home and pictured her. He had only seen her a second She was wearing one of those suits that his father wouldn't have called a business suit but what can you do. Glasses that looked all business though. Cute nose. She had longish blond hair that looked slightly frizzled. Thin. Had she worn heels? He knew men paid a lot of attention to shoes but he never bothered.
He had only seen her a second yet he got a fairly full picture of her.
She was a businesswoman who was in the square-or too young? An intern, some kind of secretary? He didn't want to be the guy who killed for no reason but he found himself increasingly okay with the idea of the death, whatever doubt or fear of it was gone. The police weren’t busting down his door. He was a free man and living – this was okay. This was very okay.
There was the line about going to the scene of the crime, but he didn't think there was much worry when next day he bought a paper though he normally didn't. He paid cash just for that ever so small doubt.
And he saw nothing.
He lived in a city where violence happened, so not the front page, but not in the city section. In the back he found a police blotter. Nothing there either. There was a report of the robbery gone bad, and how a suspect was on the loose – but no report of deaths or even an injury. He had shot to kill.
Well…bullets were very small things and she had been what? 40 feet away? She got lucky, didn't get hit.
Still, he couldn't help feeling disappointed.
It was a week later when he saw her. He was at a coffee shop getting a latte-he had fancy tastes. He was talking to a friend about another job, when she walked down the street.
Instantly again he recognized her. She was walking with a slightly determined air talking on a cell phone to someone words he couldn't here. It was her. Another girl in the crowd.
Except she was beautiful. The most beautiful girl he had seen or ever would.
He wondered why? She was thin, but there was a grandeur to it- a sense of proportion made perfect, lines within lines. Her hair had a gloss that caught the sun that wasn't looking at it. Eyes that looked like sapphires, a nose that felt of mischief and glee and …
She was walking away semi rapidly completely oblivious to him, not giving him the time of day.
And after a second watching her leave without a thought him, wrapped up in her doubtless important conversation about shoes or some shit she was gone.
And he felt angry.
“Hey paying attention?”
And then they went back to planning if not violence, mayhem. But still the lingering emotion.
Two days later they executed it. They were robbing a Dry cleaning place which is something that you didn't think had a lot of money but for reasons his friend explained did.
Getting in was easy. He was the lookout to make sure the two guys inside the back where clean. He was dressed like someone who worked at a laundry. Coveralls and a dopy expression-he had a mop … and watched
It was around 8 and quiet on the semi industrial street downtown. He watched out, seeing the occasional car, drive by a homeless person walked by, it was quiet moment where each step gave him the chance to plan something horrible to someone.
They had used the words in and out in four minutes, and it had been about 3 and a half. He was worried no word other than the occasional curses, his mind became distracted.
When she was there walking down the street.
She wasn't talking on her phone but was looking as if she was reading a text, a stupid text.
He had a massive gun in his pocket
The gunman smirked as he raised his weapon and fired it at the woman She fell down.
You forget how loud a gun can be. It rang in his ears “What the fuck?” said his 'friend', running. “What the fuck?” “She was here?”
“What the fuck?”
Another man came. “Let’s get out of here”
“Did you get it?”
“What the fuck?”
And they ran out of the store leaving the girl to lie there dead on the street.
Like she was supposed to – the bitch.
Like she was supposed to.
That night he went home and slept well.
The next morning …
… she wasn't there. The robbery was there, right as rain – an undisclosed amount stolen, no security tape, damage to the store … but no witnesses, no injuries though reports of gunfire.…
What the fuck?
He didn't ask his accomplices as they weren't talking to him a state he didn't care how long it lasted, but the thought occurred to him had they saw her-was she just in his head . Was she just in his head. His gun had shot. Did anyone else ever see the woman? Was she just a figment of his imagination? That was possible. He remembered the gun hit her center chest with a 45. that was enough to at least take her down most likely for ever.
But no body.
He remembered running. Did she disappear on the road – had she … gone? Was this..? He was not the type to seek help from a shrink. He had spent three months in juvie and they had attempted that but a bad taste.
Well something was wrong here. Something was very wrong.
He felt something that he wasn't familiar with. Fear. He knew people with guns, fists, the police – things around him that could hurt him. That he knew … this felt … existential. Was she real, a threat? Was she just fantasy? Something wasn't right and he couldn't see it or punch it, destroy it or fuck it. Something was around that he couldn't fix by making it worse for them.
He spent several days just at home thinking of it, but on the third day with his drinking funds low, the thought came. He was being scared – this fear was getting to him. And that wasn't his way. His way was to go out and make some money.
There is an art to Mugging people – the people think it’s just random, but over the years he had learned it was like fishing. Wait for the perfect target, strike, strike hard and strike fast, and move on. On a good night he was lucky to get 2 or 3 done, and earn two hundred bucks, but it was good respectable money.
Well, not respectable, but …
It was an early Saturday night at a quiet place where people were moving around with a hint of fear of how things ended – which helped things. He went back downtown to a neon filled street.
He spent about half an hour watching. Some fish, but nothing that grabbed his eye, nothing that moved him …
He realized he was looking for her, looking for …
He would curse himself for his stupidity for letting it …
When he saw her.
She was walking down the street with a guy, a handsome hipster who was wearing a nice suit and a smile above his goatee. He hated him like he hated on anyone else alive except maybe her. He hated him and wanted him burned in acid. He hated him and wanted to shoot him in his face in front of his mother. He hated him.
He watched them for a second when an odd thing happened. They stood together for a second hugged, and did an action that wasn't a kiss but could have been with their noses … and he turned and walked away, into the distance.
Wait a second.
“Hey bub,” he asked a hot dog guy. “You see that blonde over there?” The older man turned “The one with the nice knockers? Who doesn't?” She watched her date walk away, smiling for a second before turning to go.
The hot dog guy looked back. “Going crazy?”
He didn't respond, but started to follow her.
About two blocks away she walked into an alley, he knew there was a parking lot nearby. The perfect place.
He was a mugger, and a mugger didn't really make all that much money from a corpse. He would make an exception.
He walked in after her.
It was a long alley, longer and quieter then you might think. Darker too. She didn't care. Instead she reached into her purse and appeared to be searching for her keys. He was about 30 feet away
He raised up his gun.
The gunman smirked as he suddenly fired it at the woman.
He watched her fall down. Smiling. Happy. Ecstatic. He could have creamed his pants. If this what killing felt like he would have to do a lot more of it.
He walked toward her to remove whatever expensive cell she had.
When he paused.
She was moving.
And she stood up. And looked at him.
The gunman fired again at the woman.
She didn't move an inch.
This wasn't how things were supposed to happen.
The gunman fired at the woman.
He watched the flash, the muzzle go up the smoke … he watched it hit her cheek.
The gun fired at woman.
A shot that hit her neck.
The gun fired.
Then she smiled. She smiled at him a big happy smile.
The gun …
He shot at her, a desperate shot to stop the horrible monster …
Her only response was to start to laugh.
Laugh, and laugh loudly, horribly mocking him for his every failure, his every slight, his every sin. A terrible mocking laugh.
All it did was nothing. All it did was make her laugh more.
He fell to his knees unable to process this, unable to live in this reality.
The gunman smirked as he suddenly raised his weapon and fired it at himself.
And heard the empty chamber at his head barely over the sound of her laughter.
Or had she stopped, and was it only in his head?
About 20 minutes later the psych ward came and pulled him away. They had enough. His prints, they told him, would put him away for a long time. He didn't care … all he could do was hear the laughing, the horrible laughing that wouldn't – couldn’t – stop. He would need to talk to people. He needed to get out of his head and into …
At the edge of the alley she stood watching it all with a stoney facade. A policeman came over.
“You’re a pretty rotten bastard sometimes, Supergirl.”