A Work of Fiction

This work is entirely fictional, experimentally written. No persons in this document are real, nor are respresentations of anyone I know. Similarities to anyone, living or dead (or soon to be so), is merely happenstance.

Chapter One

"Officer, I was *not* going over 50 miles an hour!"
"Sir, with all due respect, save it for the courts, ok?"

This was not going well. It hadn't been my day. I hunched down in the seat as the cop took my license and registration and insurance card back to his cruiser, assumedly to write up a ticket, the yellow copy would soon be my souvenir of this chance encounter. 3 little pieces of paper, so utterly important. Some privilege driving in this state is.

I watched him as he took of his hat and climbed in the low slung, all white car. Cheverolet, I think. If I hadn't been driving a Chevy myself, I may have added that auto maker to my hit list.

Pity the cop didn't know who he was dealing with.

The traffic stop was cetainly not what provoked the later attacks, seemingly random on the surface, but all undeniably linked in my mind:
They had all pissed me off.

She sighed happily, and rolled onto her side, facing away from me. Her long blond hair hung in waves over her shoulders. I kissed her shoulder blade, and she giggled softly. She reached back with one hand and rubbed my thigh.

I lit a cigarette and stared at the ceiling. I could feel sweat running down my temples, and my chest was shiny from the gymnastics we had just perfomed. I glanced over at her long body, perfect white skin, lightly freckled. Cool air blew in the window, and I reveled in it.

I exhaled a long, grey cloud of smoke and said "Today. Let's go today."

I could hear her catch her breath, drawing it in through her teeth, and for a long moment I heard nothing. Then her hand moved upwards.

"Today," she whispered and I felt her fingers close around me.

When I was a kid, my mother always had food out for me. Mostly sandwiches, because that's all I would eat. Sometimes ham and cheese, but mostly peanut butter and jelly. I was a grape jelly fiend. A box of Lucky Charms cereal and a big bowl were a dinner favorite.

I could handle the preparation of these foods myself, and I went so far as to create the triple decker PB&J sandwich. Perfectly balanced, as the bread had to be covered from edge to edge, I would begin with a piece of white bread, a layer of peanut butter, then loads of jelly, and cap that with a slice of white bread. Then on top of that, I would spread another thick layer of jelly. On a piece of white bread off to the side, I would spread more peanut butter (it's easier to spread peanut butter onto bread then onto jelly, a fact I probably learned the hard way in early attempts) and then upend that sub assembly and crown my creation.
Voila! Such talent.

Consumed along with whatever main course I chose would be incredble amounts of milk; homogenized whole milk. Back then, there wasn't the incredible health kick pressure of Wall Street that we feel today. Of course, you could surmise this fact already seeing how my Mother simply gave in and let me eat what I wanted, instead of the lovely dinners she would prepare for the rest of the family.

My musing is interrupted when she skips into the garage, carrying a heavy black back pack.
"How many shells do we have for the Uzi?" She asks.
"12 clips." I answer and she drops the back pack in the trunk and reenters the house.

Upon reflection, I realize that life was always very easy for me. Was my Mother just too permissive? Am I somehow misdirected today because my Father was reluctant to be a part of my life? Perhaps I have always gotten my way and I find myself frustrated and angry when now, as an adult, I don't get my way. Are my feelings today somehow connected to my youth?

"Nah," I said out loud and slammed the trunk shut.

"Ready?"

She was standing by the sink with a glass in one hand, and some pills in the other. With a practiced flip of her wrist, she swallowed the pills and washed them down with the clear liquid. I heard ice cubes clinking together. She smiled at me and then threw the glass against the tiled wall. It smashed beautifully, wonderful loud sounds, shards of glass exploding in countless ways, and then it was quiet again.

I felt her lips on mine, and her warm body was pressing against me. I could feel her pushing my pants down, and I let my knees buckle so I fell back onto the kitchen chair. She quickly took me inside herself, and rode me.

As I held her large breasts in my hands and pressed further inside her, I had a sudden urge to trash the whole house, just lay it to ruin, destroy it. What the fuck, right?

I closed my eyes and let that buring red feeling pass. Not yet, I cautioned myself. Save your strength.

She was leaning out the window, more outside of the car then inside. I was half tempted to grab her leg to keep her from falling but thought "shit, what's the point?" If she goes, she goes.

I turned up the stereo a little bit more, the speakers threatening to blow at any moment from Stevie Ray Vaghn's guitar shredding, and leaned back into the seat. I stomped on the accelerator, and she kicked me in the arm. Hey, not my fault if she slips.

Pulling into the parking lot, I felt a sense of calm sweep over me. We had decided that this would be our starting place.

Planning had been easy, and most critics would probably say later that there was no plan.

We knew better.

And they should have known better.

I pulled out her back pack and threw it to her. Then I grabbed my own and slipped it over my shoulder.

"Masks," I said.

She slipped her mask over her head, and of course I recognized it. Somewhere in the last few days she had insisted on wearing it while we made love.

"Meow," she said through a whiskered face, and we entered the elevator.

No time for fun now. The short ride up was weapons check. The sound of clicking and sliding bolts home added a wierd harmony to the sound of the cables that yanked us further upwards. Upwards, and onwards, they say.

I balanced the cold black weapon on my forearm, and levered my finger over the trigger. Steel justice. I could feel the gun jumping forward in my hand, eager to unleash metal fury.

Some yahoo had changed the door codes, in an attempt to make the workplace safer, but it was easy to get the new combination. I eased off the safety as she punched in the new code and twisted the handle.

"Supper's ready," she said with a gleam in her eye. I looked her in the eyes, and kissed her hard and long, our tongues dancing.

Survivors of gun fights typically all describe them in the same way. For them, time seems to slow down to an unbelievably slow pace. Details are etched into their memories. The art on the walls, the exact wording of uplifting and teambuilding slogans, facial expressions, the slow death dance of a body as it jerks and spins in the air, a haze of blood as if it were a hanging transparent veil of gossamer...

We took that room apart like a child in a sandbox who becomes somehow angry with the citizens of the miniature world he has taken hours to create; only to stand over it as some nameless monster and destroy it utterly with a flick of his long, scaley tail.

The powerful muzzle of my weapon settled in on computer monitors, and equipment. I got a thrill out of the added chaos from the implosions and the acrid electrical fires that followed, adding confusion to the bloodbath. She rushed in, and pointed the long snout of her sawed off shotgun at trembling employees. Some were lucky, they were ordered out of the room, some were not so. While I was blowing out the large picture windows at the far end of the room, I saw her take aim at the back of an employee she had just moments ago freed, apparently changing her mind. I recognized the girl as the new clerk, an smug little shit with a mustache who loved her dog a little too much. When a sawed off shotgun lets go in a small area, you can lose an eardrum, which is why I wanted those windows down as quickly as possible.

I saw the head vanish in a cloud of red, and the body took a couple of steps before falling.

Almost funny.

Paperwork flew, and cabinets of carefully organized files came crashing down. Damn, I love this gun. I had a glow of sweat and a wide smile on my face that could be clearly seen below my Batman head.

I blew out the window of the manager's office, and I could see the tracers as my bullets cut the Boss right in half, a complete severing of upper and lower half. I swear the mouth was still moving when her upper body hit the floor.

Then she was beside me, breathing hard, sweat on her upper lip, nipples taunt against her tank top. Side by side she and I strode across the floor and found him there, cowering on the floor.

She tried to get him to stand up, but it wasn't going to happen. She kicked his feet a few times, but I knew he was frozen there. I told her to get his attention.

She spread her legs apart, and fired her shot gun at point blank range right at his crotch.

It suddenly became silent in that room. For a full minute we stayed like that. He, on the floor, his lower half a jigsaw puzzle. She astride him, proud like a hunter, looking down. And me, next to her, grinning madly, with my finger on the trigger.

Then she spat on him, and walked away.

I took a step back, and put a single round through his glasses, into his brain. And that was that.

Perhaps it was mercy I finished him so that he would not have to bleed to death, or worse, somehow survive at the hands of some talented young doctor and his crack staff. Perhaps it was some strange compassion welling up from somewhere deep inside me.

Nah. It was all those really awful jokes he kept telling.