At first, I thought it was a coincidence, but it turns out it was all deliberate. This dog would come out from the park and then shit on the sidewalk. And not any kind of poop, but that smelly, sticky, yellow crap that only dogs seem able to manufacture. Then the dog would go back into the park, just far enough so that its presence would not be obvious, and it would watch. People would eventually step in the shit, all reacting to it in different ways. The ears of the dog would jump straight up, its eyes focused on the target, absorbing everything that happened.
He did that for three days in a row, so it couldn't have been a coincidence. However, when faced with the facts, they didn't seem so strange to me. Actually it makes perfect sense for predators to ambush their prey and learn from its behavior as much as possible. I admit, for a dog it was a pretty sick and smart thing to do, but it was all within reason. After all, I was doing the same thing, staking the man up, watching his every move, learning his habits.
I can remember the days when this filled me with excitement, the thrill of the hunt reverberating from some place deep inside my skull, but now I could only feel calm. Not boredom, though; boredom is dangerous, makes people sloppy, gets them hurt. I was missing a certain element, something that, in the past, made all this fun, but I couldn't quite find it now. That's why this was the last one. And only because it was necessary.
The guy showed up at exactly the time I was expecting him to do. Small time thug, acting cool while pretending to be larger than he was capable of ever being. I let him go up to his apartment, slightly amused at the concentrated look-around that he pretended to throw before entering the building. If he wouldn't have been pretending, he would have been able to notice me, watching him from a car for three days in a row. A different car, I admit, but who would be dumb enough to do it differently? Maybe the cops... and the guy was looking out for police presence, I guess. Unfortunately for him, I was no policeman.
I gave him 5 minutes to change his mind. Maybe he would feel the wrongness of the situation, maybe luck would be with him and make him leave for some reason. Maybe he would just grab a beer and drop in his big armchair, watching mind numbing TV shows, as I knew he would. Yet, I always like to allow for the unknown, for the unexplainable, makes it seem more real. Although, when doing this thing for a long time, one sees all kinds of shit and knows almost every way people react when stepping in it. I got out of my car.
I smashed the door lock with my foot and entered the room. Dirty, sloppy, typical bachelor room with a twinge of gangsta. What a dump! My guy froze for a second on his armchair, then, to my surprise, moved really fast and produced a revolver from underneath the small table next to him. He pointed it at me and shouted something along the lines of inquiring on my identity. Of course, a lot of "fuck" and "mudafucka" was involved, although that sounded a bit off coming from an oversized white guy.
I froze for a moment, too. A gun, who would have thought? I closed the door behind me, then turned to him and started telling him what had to be said. I did have three days to think it over in my head, after all.
"There is a saying", I calmly conversed, completely ignoring the vulgar threats coming from my target, " that every boy kills his father to become a man. Of course, it's a metaphor most of the time".
I waited for a reaction, watching how the feeling of control provided by the gun was slightly fading away. He decided to enforce it by standing up and aiming the gun at me from somewhere above his head, throwing profanities at me while doing so. Doesn't he know he can hurt his wrist by firing that way? Not to mention having almost no accuracy whatsoever.
"In other words, no man is complete without killing his father first, metaphorically speaking of course". It was almost hilarious; for a second, the guy thought I was talking about him and me. I could see on his face how he considered being my father or vice-versa. Well, at least not all of this will have been devoid of fun.
"Shut da fuck up, mudafucka! Who da fuck are you anyway? You escaped from some loony ... mental... "
I ignored him "However, it was you that actually killed my father. I therefore seem to be entitled to feel... incomplete.".
I could see the reaction right away. Killing one's father was a serious thing even for a brain dead thug. He knew he was in danger now, maybe he even felt guilty, even if he had no idea who my father was. He did take a step back and aimed the gun with both hands at me. Now, that was better. I could tell he was considering squeezing the trigger right then, but people are always too curious for their own good. He had to know how it plays out.
"I have decided to pursue my quest for completeness by killing you.", I then added, gently pushing him over the edge with a hard look. He fired.
There is something slightly poetic in having your own gun explode in your hands, killing you instantly with a stray piece of metal through the eye and brain. Of course, the cement in the barrel and the well planned weakening of the metal of the revolver cock would be obvious during the police investigation, but it would also be clear that the gun was unregistered and that the victim pulled the trigger voluntarily.
I didn't quite feel complete, though. He hadn't kill my father, either, so I guess it was to be expected, but I was sure he did kill someone's parent at some point in time, so I also expected a bit more gratification.
After all, it was a good call to stop doing this. No fun at all. Well, maybe not a complete stop, more like a sabbatical, to clear one's thoughts. I may never do it again.
No, I didn't leave my current job. This is more or less a quote from some blog I read. Probably Jean Paul S. Boodhoo, but I couldn't find the reference when I looked for it.
