They say your whole life flashes by in front of your eyes when you face certain death. They're such liars. When you're looking down the smoking barrel of a silenced 9mm, the only thought that races across your brain is disbelief... "This can't be happening.." "Why me..." and so on. The adrenaline kicks in, rendering an otherwise rational individual completely irrational. You panic, you break down, you beg the man behind the barrel for your life, clinging on to an outside hope that he spares your life. Some even foolishly try to fight their way out. Some resign themselves to their fate; wait to be put out of their misery.
"What does this guy know about getting shot?" you might ask. I won't bother proving it to you, and even if I did, you wouldn't believe me anyway.
The guy in front of me, the one at the business end of the silenced 9mm in my hand, belonged to that category of men who are defiant to the last. His crime? He took my wife away from me, took my whole life away. My eyes drift over to the brunette next to him. Both are beaten up badly, the brunette has a cut lip and the man has a broken nose and a gunshot wound to his stomach. I am beat up myself, and the blood on my palm causes the gun to slip slightly. My reverie is broken. I grip the gun more tightly, aiming at the brunette. She is too terrified to speak, whimpering. I like the sound, relishing every bit of it, relishing the power of playing the judge, jury and executioner. No one really questions your judgement when you are the one holding the gun.
"Time to end this..." I say.
"Let her go. You have me." Says he, bleeding profusely. He is almost gone. I must hurry.
I turn the gun on the brunette.
"Honey... please...." She whimpers.
"Consider this a divorce!"
BLAM! BLAM!
I squeeze off two shots right between her eyes, enjoying the kill. The fact that I just killed my wife doesn't disturb me at all. In fact, I find it liberating.
I turn my attention to the other one. He is almost gone. I can't let him die on me. I need to take his life.
I point my gun at him, now. He does not speak, but looks me in the eye with every bit of hatred he can muster. I look straight back into his eyes, contemptuous.
"Your turn..."
"You're a piece of shit, worthless garbage, nothing more. You'll pay, you bastard. One day you'll pay..."
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
His brain is splattered all over the place. He's dead. So is the bitch.
I slowly sink to the floor, tired. Its probably midnight now, and it is pouring cats and dogs. I'll wait for a while, rest a bit. Then I'll leave, for my work is only half done. There will be others, the ones who tried to kill me. Little did they know that the bullet, still lodged in my brain, somehow kept me alive.
As for your questions as to why I am the way I am, I'd probably tell you that I just plain enjoy this killing thing. No, my childhood was not troubled, and no, my family was not poor. I just enjoy being evil. I am a villain and I live in a world where good guys don't always win.
