Page 59 of Burn
I have wanted to go to her place so many times, to sleep in her bed, to smell her on the sheets, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I need the little bit of softness she put in my heart to harden back up, so that I can continue my task of eliminating everyone who put her in danger, whether directly involved or not.
Every dealer, cook, runner, all of them will suffer and die. They will burn to death just like she did. They won’t get it quick though, oh no, they’ll die slowly and painfully.
If anyone knew what I did before, they would think it’s child’s play compared to now. I’m mad, no, not mad, I’m irate, pissed, and fuming. They took her from me, killed her, burned her, and they too shall burn.
None of my brothers have said anything about me not doing my real job. I don’t think they will ever again say anything to me or about me. They leave me alone now. The jokes are done, and even the dirty looks and rumors of me being a psycho are over. It’s like I don’t exist anymore. I’m just a lump on a cot taking up space, and quite frankly I prefer it that way.
Even the captain has given me more space than I had expected him to. He checks on me though. I see him looking around the corner sometimes, his soft eyes scanning me up and down. Sometimes it looks like he’s about to say something, but he changes his mind and disappears again. I wonder if they know what I’m doing when I sneak out at night. They can’t be completely oblivious. I mean the bike makes plenty of noise outside as I fire her up each evening.
You ready?
“Let’s go.”
The garage is quiet and dark as I slide down the pole silently, my sneakers landing on the concrete floor without a sound. The big bay doors roll open, and the street beyond comes into view as I push the bike out. Out of respect to the sleeping people upstairs, I don’t start the motorcycle until I’m outside and the doors are closed behind me, then I fire her up, slamming my helmet on.
With a flick of my head, I close the mirrored visor. It makes seeing at night more difficult, but it also keeps my identity completely hidden. No one can see the eyes of the killer as he takes them to hell, and that’s how I want it.
The rumble of the engine, and the vibration of the exhaust between my thighs centers me as I pull out into the street. The night is young so there’s still traffic, but by the time I’m done and the sun is coming up over the horizon, it’ll thin out. In the meantime, I need to carefully move amongst the other vehicles, not calling any attention to myself.
There’s no speeding, no lane filtering, nothing that could warrant attention to me when I’m in the city. But once the killing is done for the night and I need to blow off the rest of the steam, the blue route gets to see it all.
Falling in behind a silver sedan, I cruise up Market Street, then turn down towards the university. The college kids aren’t my prey, but the druggies that sell to them under the trains are. There will be unlimited amounts of animals to pick from as they peddle their shit.
It doesn’t take long before I find my first one of the evening. He’s pacing back and forth, in his baggy jeans, and white wife beater tank, talking to himself, and shaking from the overuse of his own supply. His nappy black hair looks like it hasn’t been washed in decades, and when I pull up alongside of him at the curb it smells like he hasn’t showered in just as long.
“How much for a hit?’ I ask him, pretending to reach back for my wallet.
“Twenty.” He says, wiping his dirty face with an even dirtier hand.
“Cool. Meet me out back.” I say, nodding to the end of the block. “Don’t want anyone to see.”
“Yeah, right. Whatever.” He says, wagging a small baggie full of tiny white rocks. “This it?”
“Put it away.”
“Chill out man.”
“You chill out. Come on, out back.”
Slowly I move the bike towards the corner, following behind him, keeping my foot down on the curb. When he walks around the bus stop cabana on the corner, I hurry up to make sure he stays in sight.
Of course he’s not going anywhere, he thinks I have money, and the money will become his. The only thing becoming his though is his own death.
He yelps when I step off the bike and jump on him, grabbing him by the shoulders the moment we’re out of the prying eyes of passersby on the main street. We tumble to the ground, me rolling on top of him, disgusted by the stench coming off him, thanking the high heavens I have my full leathers and gloves on. I don’t want his diseases touching me.
We roll around on the sidewalk, my feet kicking the pavement, pushing us from the cement to the grassy area of the edge of a small park. He grunts and curses at me, spitting on my visor, and I backhand him hard enough one of his meth-eaten teeth flies from his gross mouth.
“Fuck.” He curses, bucking under me, but it’s no use.
“You killed her.”
Him and all his druggie buddies. Kill him.
“I am.”
Kill him quick and move onto the next one.
“I didn’t kill anyone!” He shrieks as he continues to writhe under me, trying to get away.
