by James Tow
folded the peel and held it up to his face—squeezing the acid into his exposed eye. He screams and I start to laugh.
I start pacing in front of him, “You know,” I started, “I think you’re right.” He looked at me with his unharmed eye. I get in his face. “I am filled with hate.” I take a step back and begin to ramble. “Even the smallest things would set me off. Boys, beating the helpless girls they stalk. Wanna-be gangsters, totting around guns—thinking it makes them men while not having a care for anything else. Rednecks, doing anything they please. Chinks, speeding around in their rice rockets. Fucking druggies. Lawyers, defending the bad guys. Damned politicians. Neo-Nazi’s and their blind prejudice…”
Again, I got in his face, “I hate whites, blacks, browns, oranges and greens. I hate Satan and I hate God. I hate country music. I hate the faggot Jonas Brothers. I hate the color yellow. I hate white chocolate. I hate you, and I hate me.” He continued to blink heavily—trying to relieve his eyes of the citric acid. “Shit, I hate Santa Claus,” I chuckled. “That sonuvabitch never gave me what I wanted.”
He was rapidly shaking his head, and still groaning from the pain in his eyes. “I thought you weren’t going to hurt me,” he said—changing the subject.
He wasn’t laughing. I took a step back, “You’re right,” I started. “I said, ‘I didn’t come in here to hit you.’” He relaxed a bit and I said, “I came in here to kill you.” He stiffened at the thought. I’m trying my hardest to keep calm, but my anger is making me tremble from head-to-toe.
I walked behind his back. What to do? What to do? His imagination must be running wild right now—wondering what will happen to him. I start to laugh when he twists his head around—trying to see his predator. Quickly, I wrap my left arm around his neck and use my right arm to lock it in. He spasms in attempt to free himself, but it’s useless.
“One of the worst feelings in the world is knowing you’re about to die and not being able to save yourself,” I tell him through gritted teeth. Within seconds his consciousness begins to fade, and he goes limp. I let go, but he’s still limp. I walk around to see his face, and I start to laugh at the sight. His eyes are wide and empty, his face pale, and his mouth was open struggling for air.
“I’ve never seen that before,” I chuckled. “It’s like purgatory. You’re in between consciousness and unconsciousness.” I stood, feet from his face, waiting…
“So…what’s it gonna be?” I asked him as he stayed lifeless in purgatory.
I waited a few more moments before backhanding his face. Soon after he finally manages to gasp for air, and the color returns to his face. He looks around aimlessly—wondering what the hell just happened.
“That feeling must suck,” I tell him while laughing.
“Fuck you,” he gasped.
Still laughing, I nonchalantly walk behind him. This time I grab his head, with my right hand on his chin and my left wrapping around behind his ears. Slowly, and as far as his neck will allow, I turn his head to the right. He starts to grunt and groan.
“Now, this feeling sucks. I know from experience,” I tell him. Spit starts shooting out from between his lips. His neck cracks and I know moving it the slightest bit and he’s dead.
“Knowing I only have to move your head another inch to break your neck must seriously bother you,” I chuckle. “And now I’d imagine your neck muscles getting tired—making it much more difficult to resist.” He starts screaming louder. “Just tap out! C’mon man, tap out! Don’t be a hero!” I yell in his ear. His bound hands were against my left leg, and I felt him tap my knee. I start to laugh.
I let go of my hold, and he starts stretching his neck. “Man. What the hell is wrong with you?!” he yelled.
“I’m fucked up,” I snickered. “At least I don’t march around destroying any life I please.” He said nothing.
I walked around to his front and pulled out my bolo blade. “My mother was raised in Manila, so I spent a lot of time in the Philippines—visiting her family and all that jazz. Well, one of the things I picked up was the deadly art of Kali. Now, you’re probably thinking it can’t be that deadly because it’s only a Filipino form of martial arts. But I’d change your mind if you saw me in action.” He was looking at me with horror as I practiced Kali moves with the blade. “You see, it’s a martial art form where you use weapons like knives or bamboo—which can be translated to this blade I have here,” I said showing him the twenty-inch blade. “Let me show you.”
I walk up to him, and pull back his vest to reveal more of his chest. With a few lightening quick attacks I begin to hack away at his body. I feel the sharp blade easily sink into his skin, and each time I yank it out I hear the satisfying sound of metal unsheathing from raw meat. He screams with each contact.
I pull back, “Pretty cool, huh?” He has severe lacerations across his chest and shoulders. I get up close and pull apart some of the cuts on his body—blood streaming. “Oh yeah! I can see some of them fat cells now!”
“I thought you weren’t going to hurt me,” he gasped.
“Damn it! Don’t you listen?” I said pulling away. “I said ‘I wasn’t here to hurt you.’ Sure, I’ve definitely been causing you pain. No doubt about that, but I’m merely exploring my options as to how I’m going to end your life. I just don’t know which will be more fun.”
“Man, aren’t you supposed to be some kind of savior? Like a merciful hero?” he said in desperation.
“That’s more along the lines of my brother,” I tell him. “You see, you take a recipe…” I start to explain. I can tell he’s confused, but he refuses to look at me. “A delicious recipe and you mix in the perfect amount of ingredients. You taste it, and it tastes oh so good. Now, you take that same recipe and you try to make seconds—because it tastes oh so good. But this time, while you’re adding the spices…the lid falls off.” I grab his head, and force him to look in my eyes. “You taste that second recipe, and can’t stand it. It kicks and tears at the inside of your mouth. It stings your tongue. So you spit it out…” I glare into his fear-filled eyes. “You clean the recipe you just spat on the floor, and you realize it’s an amazing cleaning solution—taking off the dirt and grime off your floor.” He tries to pull his head out of my grasp, but I hold him tighter. “I’m that second recipe…here to clean the dirt and grime,” I growl in his face.
Letting go, and taking several steps back, I yell, “I’m not a savior! I’m no hero!” I run up to him, inches from his face, “I’m a fucking psychopath. I’m a killer, out to kill those who stand in the way of my salvation.” I took five paces back and closed my eyes—anger fueling lost state of mind.
‘Control,’ she said.
I open my eyes.
A lone fly is circling feet from my face. “GOD DAMN IT!” I yell and pull out my pistol. Swerving in quick circles, he dodges my shots. I unload the clip in trying to shoot the fly. He’s gone. I must have got him. I focus my sight on the prisoner, and he has several bullet holes riddled throughout his body. Nothing fatal though. I slowly walk up to him and put my ear to his chest.
“That sound is beautiful,” I said as I listened to his gurgling gasps.
“Sorry about that,” I apologized. “Pain does build character though. So I guess I did you a favor…you can thank me later.”
“Go home,” he gasped. “Go home…that would be your next best move.”
As soon as he finished, I held the gun up to his chest.”
“But…” he started
“I guess I’m a liar. It’s a shame though. I was leaning toward breaking your neck.” He nodded toward the badge on his chest. I reached over and tore off the ‘Captain’ badge from his shirt, and he smiled. I examine the badge to discover a series of tiny circuits. A transmitter.
Finally, my head is clear. Damn splitting headache keeps me from thinking straight. How long would it be till they showed? And who exactly are ‘they?’
I look up and he is still smiling at me. I aim a little higher and fire three sho
ts into his grinning mouth.
My legs carried me to the door, and my hand opened it. On the other side were many faces. These faces had wide eyes, and for some reason they backed away when I approached. One face followed me as my legs carried me to an old face. My hand holds out the tiny device to the old face, and it takes it.
“We have to move,” the face whispered. Then it yelled, “WE HAVE TO MOVE!”
The face that was following me asked me something. My mouth said, “The British are coming. The British are coming.”
Anna
12. My Father
I shut the door to my office, and mindlessly head for my wooden desk—plopping myself down on the cozy leather chair.
Tomorrow is going to be harsh—the second part of this story always is. It’s hard to give them as much information as possible, and keeping out the unnecessary. And there is always the problem with my emotions. They run amuck every time.
Fiddling around with the contents of my desk always keeps me calm—especially the large picture of my mother and father. He stood tall, his chin high with a wide grin, and mom, pressed against him, wrapped her arms around his waist. He always makes me smile.
I have to remind myself that the remarkable man is my father. Hearing, telling, and reading of him makes me believe he’s some kind of comic book super hero.
My mother’s voice echoes in my head—I retell his story through