Power is earned by wealth. I first learned this at a young age. Those of us who went to the good schools based on merit did exceptionally better than the kids whose parents pay for their tutors and better materials. I grew to think poorly of people who were able to get an easy path in life based on their wealth. In the end, however, those with wealthier backgrounds had the advantage.
Today is another day of working for those same people I looked down upon in my youth. This traffic is atrocious and if I don’t hurry I won’t be able to make my catch. I take a shortcut down an alley way which is longer than I remember. I have been driving these streets for twenty years, after all. I pass by some loitering strangely dressed bums. These freaks dress in big pants and have piercings in places where it goes through bone.
These grotesque rejects are all show. One has the gumption to get inside my car and the rest move out of my field of vision. Ploys like these are common in this town with its abundance of street thugs. This punk in front of me has a tattoo of a hornet on his cheek and hair that has all the properties of poorly bound hay. This kid barely eats and it shows. His facial hair is sparse, and scars show on his chin it’s as if he shaved with a piece of glass. I roll down my window, pull from my wallet a 20, and proceed to drop it out my window. All of the depraved animals jump after it, tearing at and trampling over each other.
“What are you doing in this part of town?” he says. He is pulling the usual tough guy bravado.
I say that I am on business and give him a reason to get out of my car with a gun that I show inside my coat. The kid gets out and gives me the bird. This delay by the sub-human species was annoying though it was to be expected and I should make it on time. I know that being late is not option. One miscalculation and I could end up dead or on the run for life. I end up on the street and wait.
The subject exits her home. She is young woman in her early 30s who pissed off the wrong people. A graduate from law school who thinks it’s her job to save the world. The righteous never last in a filthy world. She gets into the car and I shift gears. Right as she pulls out of her driveway she looks in my direction as she hears my tires pulling against the ground.
We crash and she goes limp. The oil and gasoline are starting to leak from our cars. I light a match and drop it as I leave. As I am about to walk around the corner, I look back to the finished piece. The sirens coming from the distance are raising in volume and they are reaching a climactic crescendo as they get closer to their destination.
I arrive at the diner around 9pm and the decrepit waitress asks for my order. I ask for orange juice. The glass hits the counter a minute later. My employer enters soon after. She sits down. She’s a young woman, akin to the one I just killed, who has never seen a day of peace.
“You failed us,” she says looking straight across the counter. This is not what I expect and I ask how. It’s too late. I look at my arm and skin starts to become thin and my blood seems to be showing through my veins. She leaves as I collapse onto the floor and I can feel my mind faltering. The unmopped floor of the diner becomes the only sensation of my body as I struggle to get up. A few people start to stand over me. A child cries. The old waitress whose flirtatious looks deter me from tipping generously starts to gather my body piece by piece. Others grab for me. They shove me into their pocket as they fight one another and I feel my face against the suspicious warmth of glass.
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