I needed an outlet…
Now here I am. On the streets of New York City, getting even with the same types of assholes who ruined me. Yeah, I accept responsibility for my own downfall. But drugs are demons who play you and feed you lies. And the dealers are the ones who groom you for addictions. For that, they should pay. And when the system doesn’t do its job and punish them, I show up.
“Yeah, that’s good,” J-Rush groans.
Jesus, did this guy drink an entire bottle of whiskey?
The woman lets his limp dick flop from her mouth. “When the fuck are you going to come? I need my fix.”
Before this chick snaps and bites off his dick and strips me of the satisfaction of killing him, I move in. He’ll be my 62ndvictim.
Hooting noises from a nearby bar fill the silence and muffle the sound of my steps as I creep up behind the dealer. I just need access to his neck.
Steps away, I remove the syringe and slide off the plastic cap.
The fentanyl hot-shot I use is so potent that one drop could stop a bull’s heart. Fast. Silent. Perfect.
With thick canvas gloves and a double inner lining to prevent contact from an accidental nick of the needle or a drop on my skin, I carry it carefully. Like when I was a doctor, with finesse and care.
Now I’m an executioner.
This thing is a weapon, and I don’t bother gently looking for a vein or pinching a muscle to lessen the sting.
The dealer doesn’t see me or the syringe until I’m right behind him, my arm curled tightly around his throat, and the tip of the needle jammed into his scrawny neck.
Got you…
The piece of shit straightens and pulls uselessly at my arm. “What the fuck?”
The woman pops off his dick and falls back on her ass, swearing as she hits the hard ground. Looking up, she gasps when she sees me.
It must be surprising to see a masked man dressed in all black show up to kill the guy she’s blowing for a bag of pills.
“You’re fine, sweetheart,” I say. “I’m not going to hurt you. But this scum has to go.”
The dealer sucks in a tattered breath. “Wait!”
“Shhh.” My voice is steady and cold. “Just breathe.”
I firmly depress the plunger with my thumb as I whisper into his ear, “The torture of a bad conscience is the hell of a living soul.”
I doubt this loser knows a famous quote from a 16th-Century French theologian about regret and being locked in your own personal hell until you’ve made amends.
It’s my battle cry and has nothing to do with this asshole. Whether or not he actually goes to hell is above my pay grade. The goal in my past life was to keep people alive in this world.
Where the ones I kill in this life go is up to God.
J-Rush collapses at my feet, but he’s not dead yet. Just foaming at the mouth.
Fuck…
Tonight, I’ll make it personal for what he did to this woman. Anger roiling inside me, I pummel his face until blood explodes from his nose. The beating leaves my knuckles red and raw. With my foot on his throat, I reach for the second syringe and jam the needle into his thigh.
I wait this time until I don’t feel a heartbeat.
It’s done, and I feel nothing. No guilt. No regret. Just the quiet satisfaction that someone won’t die tonight or tomorrow because of this scumbag.
When I stand up, the woman claws her way to get to her feet, clinging to the rusted steel dumpster. The light hits her face, and my stomach clenches.