Here it is.
December 5, 1998 10:00 AM
I remember when it used to be wrong to treat people like shit. I remember when you used to walk down the street with your head up and your neighbors as well as strangers would greet you fondly. Now you're lucky if you don't get shot walking your dog or getting fresh air. The world is headed down a scary path. I have to do everything in my power to change that.
I'm sitting here at my desk, pondering this. How disgusting society has become. My boss is coming this way, time to look busy.
12:00 NOON
So the boss walks up to me. He's a few years younger than fifty, graying hair, always slicked back. I think it's because he wants to make people think he's younger. The man obviously hasn't taken a peek at a mirror since the 80's. He's one of those men that makes your stomach twist like a pretzel when you see him coming. His voice is a quiet assault to my ears.
"Hi, hun. You know you look so much prettier when you smile."
I don't say anything. How do you respond to that?
"Why don't you come find me when your shift is over and we can see about fixing that frown."
He's a married man! Kids, a happy wife! We all know around here. You can't go into his office without him blabbering on and on about his little trophy wife at home that managed to pop out four boys in four years. All I could do was sit in shocked silence. He winked at me over his shoulder before I started tasting bile.
As I sit here with my lunch, vomit-safe saltines and blue gatorade, I know what has to be done.
6:00 PM
I'm sitting here in this beautiful car. The leather feels like the softest touch against the aching muscles that make up my body.
At five, my shift is over. Time to go home. But it's never that easy. I get my things together and sit, listening to my fingers drum against my desk for God knows how long before I find the courage to get up. I can't remember taking the long way, or walking past the security desk, but I would have had to.
George is the security guard. Big, dumb waste of space that might as well be home watching football, scratching random parts of his anatomy. If he would have been doing his job, he would have noticed me walking by robotically, taking his baton, and walking away like a janitor with a bag of garbage. But George went on snoring like the useless sack of crap he is.
I smelt him before I could see him. Too much after shave with a gargle of Listerine for good measure. For me? Aw. He really shouldn't have. It was, with a smile, that I made my way toward his turned back.
I don't remember much. Just that his brains looked alot like Mom's spaghetti splattered all over the side of the random car in the dark garage. And now as I sit here in his car, listening to the Mozartesque music, pondering the world with one less scumbag in it, I can't help but wonder how the person that finds him is going to look. Horror, sympathy, repulsion? Horror that, woah, there's a mangled dead body in my backseat! Sympathy for his unloved loved ones? Repulsion because his brains are in little clumps all over their car? Or will they know? He said the wrong thing to the wrong person and finally got his. The world is a better places because he's not in it. Do I feel remorse? No. Mean people, rude people, watch your step. I will make society a better place, one death at a time. No, I won't tell you my name, his name. In the end, does it even really matter?