Murdered First, Killed Later
The barrel of the gun rises slowly, greets him with callous indifference. A bead of sweat trickles down, betrays him. The steel is oh-so-cold against his forehead.
“I’m going to do it this time.”
He spits right into the eye of his enemy. “Fuck you! You don’t have it in you and you know it. If I didn’t feel sorry for you, I’d snatch that gun and blow your fucking brains against the wall. You’re weak.”
“Stop it! Stop talking. I’m in control.”
“In control? Look at you. You’re dripping sweat. You’re red all over and you’ve got that same little bitch expression you always had after pop put it in you. Yeah, I know about that. I know aaaaallll about it.”
“Shut up!”
“How gently he’d stroke your hair.”
“Stop!”
“Tell you to be quiet. A long sssssshhhhhhhhhh.”
“Stop! Stop!” The sobs were wet with mucus, maybe blood.
“And I know the biggest secret of all, kid. I know how you liked it. Didn’t you? You dirty fuck. You liked it.”
“It’s not true! It’s not true!”
“Little Johny had a thing for Daddy. Didn’t you? Put that thing away now. I know you ain’t gonna — ”
The pop was loud, definitive as the lead found its mark. There was a thud when the knees hit, another as the rest of the body joined, face down, kissing the carpet.
A few hours later the cops showed up. The floor, littered with glass and soaked in blood, presents the body for its chalk outline.
“Ah, shit,” says one officer. “I know this guy. That’s Johnny Carlisle. Poor bastard was raped by his father as a kid. Completely fucked him up. Guess it finally got the better of him.”
