A shrink might accuse me of being delusional but what the fuck does he know. How many times has he been bullied on a Bart train by some punk teenager, looking to get his vanity fix? What about an abused kid falling asleep at night knowing the next day will be just as worse as the present. Where’s the justice? Is it fair to tell them no help is coming their way? That nobody gives a shit. And why don’t they give a shit? I will tell you why. Everyone’s worried about themselves, afraid to get involved. They settle for the 1,2,3 punch. Hurt, bleed, and pray. I refused to be a bitch any longer, drowning in self-pity to a world that doesn’t care if I live or die. The words might come off angry but nothing could be further from the truth. To counter evil one must act like evil. I guess killing will make one view life in a different light.
My co-workers view me as a lost puppy, a thing, just surviving. Death would be more comfortable. I used to possess a losing attitude, making excuses. No more. I got off the sideline and into the game. Most of the people at my job make me sick; broken lambs walking through life happy to collect a paycheck. Repetition is their forte. Truth be told, I feel sorry for them. Nothing worse than not having a reason for living. If they only knew the power they have.
I went to church a few weeks ago. The pastor told a story about this guy who interviewed for a job. Before the interview, the man met with the pastor and they both prayed for guidance, strength, and of course for the man to get the job. The first round of interviews went well. On his second interview the company told the man they respected his enthusiasm but he wasn’t a good fit for them. Suffice to say, he was devastated. He thought God let him down. Six months later he turns on the news and finds out the company declared bankruptcy. Moral of the story: A disappointment can be a blessing in disguise. It’s hard to push that philosophy into play when it comes to the death of my wife. A year ago, if someone broke it down to me that way I would have punched them in the mouth. Today I see the big picture, which brings me to Ronald Gardner, victim #4.
Ronald was a bottom feeding leech. A slumlord who wouldn’t fix a damn thing in the buildings he owned. If a tenant complained, he would either raise the rent or evict them. I saw this lady standing in front of a restaurant begging for money one day. She had two kids with her. They looked run down, like they hadn’t eaten in days. The image broke my heart. I pulled out my wallet and handed her two crisp twenty dollar bills. She thanked me, crying.
“Why are you on the streets?” I asked. She broke into a story about how her landlord threw her and her kids out without notification, because her daughter got sick and she had to use some of the rent money to pay for her daughter’s medical treatment. To add insult to injury the landlord called the hotel where the lady worked as a chambermaid and told her boss she was a deadbeat, and if they were smart they would let her go. The hotel fired her. I asked her what the landlords name is and decided to pay a visit to one Ronald Gardner. I don’t know why. This wasn’t my problem but I felt compelled to intervene. The guy had a reputation for screwing low-income families out of their homes. The fucked up thing about it was this asshole received a nice check from Uncle Sam each month to cover half the cost of the tenants rent, some sort of Section 8 program. This guy loved to jack up the rent without justification. Come to find out he’s kicked out a total of 20 families with as little as a few days’ notification, a real Ebenezer Scrooge.
I caught him in his office in one of his run-down buildings in Hayward. He was an older man, maybe early fifties, sixties, dressed in a silk suit. I remember the ring on his left pinky finger almost blinded me, the shiny diamond brushing me back. He looked more like a mafia don than a slumlord. I made a point to dress up, wearing khakis, a polo shirt and loafers. I started off with a courtesy introduction of myself, then went into a tirade about how concerned I am for the families who he evicted, if there was any chance he might consider letting them move back in. He eyed me up and down, asked what organization I represented. When I told him I was just a concerned citizen he started yelling, telling me to quit wasting his time and get the fuck out. The rage kicked in, followed by the shaking, and then I sprang into action. I flew across the desk and punched him in the face. His chair tipped over knocking his greedy ass to the ground. I grabbed him by the hair. He hit me square in the stomach, knocking the wind out of me. I dropped to my knees gasping for air. I glanced over and saw him open a drawer and pull out a gun. He cursed in what sounded like Hebrew. I couldn’t be sure. He pointed the damn thing at me and pulled the trigger. The shot rang so loud I thought I lost my hearing. The son of a bitch couldn’t shoot straight. He aimed again. I snagged a cup off the ground and chucked it at him, hitting his head. I couldn’t breathe. By this time, I could hear people gathering in the hallway, mumbling, asking one another what was going on. I snatched up the gun and stuck it in the middle of his forehead. He started pleading, begging me not to shoot. I smacked him with the barrel of the gun and told him to take out a pencil and paper. He looked at me like I called his mother a cunt so I smacked him again. For the next ten minutes I ordered him to write what was to become his new will and testament. Every single family he kicked out was to be let back into their apartment with six months free rent. He shook his head, screaming, “No No, this is going to cost too much.” I told him it wouldn’t cost anything at all. He asked me what I meant by that. I said, “Dead men don’t own possessions,” right before I shot him in the head. I walked out the door and into the crowd of curious people. I figured I would be going to jail for the rest of my life but something weird happened. A Mexican man wearing a flannel and a dirty trucker’s hat clapped like I hit a home run. The person next to him clapped and then the person next to him. It became contagious like the wave at a ball game. Within minutes the hallway crowded with clapping hands and smiling faces. I later found out when the police arrived and asked the tenants what happened, they all played dumb, shrugged their shoulders. I got away with my fourth murder.
Once you stop caring about dying or going to jail, you can do anything you want.
March 10, 1995
Whoever said a gun don’t exuberate power never experienced the rush of witnessing someone’s brains flying across the room. Ronald Gardner’s death brought a degree of entitlement to the soul.
A politician once said that democracy breeds thugs and crime. Amen brother!! In a totalitarian state, each person realizes his or her place in the pecking order; Law doesn’t exist. Not in this cold world. We’re all cowboys, making up the rules as we go along, justifying our actions with one-liner bible verses. What a bunch of shit. I refuse to indulge in false hope, hiding from who I am.
A hypocrite breeds the saying, “Do what I say not what I do.” I don’t believe in that philosophy. In order to succeed, one must deviate from the script known as routine. I hate routines. They are for old crotchety folks who’ve stopped living, content on watching the days pass them by. No goals. No challenges. What the fuck’s the point of having a pulse?
The thrill of victory tastes fruitful but the drowning feeling of defeat can be prosperous. My logic may come off a little twisted. Just hear me out. How much would one appreciate an award without the sacrifice? Think on it and get back to me. OK, so I got off topic.
The episodes leading up to this point in my life stank of struggle, maybe even a blessing. I say that with a heavy heart. My wife had been the light keeping me afloat. The reason for the 9-5 grind, the picket fence. I made one mistake. I gave her the key of empowerment. When you give someone the power to build you up you also give them the power to destroy you, which brings me to victims #5 and #6.
It was a lazy cold Friday night. I pulled into the Bay Fair Bart Station around 9:00pm. Before I got out of the car I reached into my glove compartment. Ronald Gardner’s gun stared at me. I loaded a clip and stuck the piece in my waistband. Poor Ronald couldn’t shoot straight. If he did, I’d be buried next to my wife at this moment. I made sure I didn’t make the same mistake. I went to the shooting range on occasions, popped off a few rounds.
Guy I ran into taught me proper form and blessed mechanics. Think his name was Jeff or Jethro. I couldn’t tell with that thick southern accent. Anyway, he said most people look at the target when they aim a gun. He told me if you want to hit something, stare at the tip end, arms locked. Jeff or Jethro grew red veins in his neck. An old rebel with conservative values trapped in a liberal state. He threw the N-word around like it was part of the English vocabulary. The slurs bothered me but I understood his frustration. Son of a bitch said he’d been robbed 3 times by a group of black guys. On one occasion, they made him strip down to his underwear while they laughed, calling him a cracker. He had enough. He bought a gun and practiced shooting an hour a day. Got so good at it within a year he became a certified instructor.
So, I’m ‘strapped’ as the young punks say on the street, walking towards the station, when I notice 2 black dudes staring at me hard. I recognized trouble tattooed on their forehead. I kept my eyes down as I walked to the ticket machine. The original plan had been to catch a peaceful train to San Francisco, get off on the Embarcadero and stroll the downtown area. Something about taking in the view of the Bay Bridge calms my jumpy nerves. The gun came with me as a formality, playing the role of bodyguard, hoping not to make an appearance. So much for wishful thinking. I put a Lincoln into the machine and waited until it spit out a ticket. The two figures flanked me, about ten feet behind, wearing wolfish grins. I gave a courtesy glance before I stuck my hands in my jacket pocket and walked to the turnstile. At the last second I veered off to the left, power walking. I made the decision to kill these punks right then. There was too much light around, so I decided to bait the fucks into the darkness where nobody could see. One of them said, “This is easy.” The other one said, “Let’s jack this fool.”
Little did they know who they were fucking with. I stopped on the railroad tracks next to the back parking lot, adjacent to the Bart station. I turned around and said, “Can I help you fellas?” One of them, wearing a black jacket five sizes too big laughed and said, “Give me your shit fool.”
I asked him if he wanted everything. He turned to his buddy, confused then back at me. “Fuck you, cracker.” His buddy told me to break myself. Some kind of street lingo. I smiled. This caught them off guard. Here I am a middle-aged white dude about to get robbed by two punks and I’m happy? Didn’t take long to figure out why. I dug into my waistband and out popped Mr. 38. You should have seen the looks on their faces. Oversized jacket held his hands up pacing back. He said, “Yo man, chill.” I shot him in the leg. His friend was about to take off running so I pumped three rounds in his lower back. He screamed in pain. Come to think of it, both of these fucks did. I yelled at oversized coat guy, advised him to pay attention as I grabbed his friend by the neck and put a bullet in his head. Oversized coat tried to crawl away. He screamed like a little girl, begging me not to kill him. I walked up to him and said those magic words before I pulled the trigger.
Once you stop caring about dying or going to jail, you can do anything you want.
April 9, 1995
The thugs I butchered would later be identified as Jerome Williams of Oakland and his cousin Eric Grant of Richmond. Both drew rap sheets as long as a politician’s filibuster speech. A one-minute piece on their deaths scrolled across the television. I’m guessing nobody cared. Change the channel and back to the T.V. dinners. The cops didn’t blink. Two scumbags off the street. Case closed. For the second time in less than a month I got away with murder. At this point the process ran well. I didn’t have any remorse for the five souls I sold to the devil. Am I evil? I don’t know. What am I, a fucking psychiatrist?
I can’t stop thinking about my wife. I wonder what she’s doing this minute. Is she in heaven? Is there a God or are we left to fend for ourselves, praying to a higher power that doesn’t exist? I like to think some form of afterlife found my sweetheart. I also recognize the flip side to the coin. What if she’s sitting up top where the angels sing all-night, where the ones who got shit on in life are treated as royalty, draped in gold, while guys like Carnegie play servants. Talk about a reverse of fortunes. Another question tugs at the soul every time my head hits the pillow at night. What would she think of the man I’ve become? Disappointment comes to mind, but why? I’m correcting society’s mistakes.
Goddamn, I’m so lonely. You don’t realize what you got till it’s gone. Those of you who’ve lost a significant other understand what I’m talking about. I don’t care what anybody says, there is no greater pain. Each day is tougher than the day before. The body’s drenched with sorrow. A will to move on flutters. You start going through the 5 stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I hit the first four levels within a few hours of losing my wife. I still haven’t found the last stage. I mean, let’s be honest. When you truly love someone you never let go. Ever!! The pain becomes so intense you wish the person would have never come into your life. You can’t think of anything else, no matter how hard you try. Yup, the power of love can cripple the strongest of men; break him down to a sniveling baby. Can’t remember the last time I strapped on a pair of tennis shoes and lost myself in a two-hour run, surrounded by nature’s aesthetic views. My father once told me politicians have a passion to change lives but not a passion for life. That’s how I feel.
By killing those scumbags, the drive for cleaning up the streets intensified but I have no desire to live life to the fullest. I always wanted to visit France and Italy with my wife but that will never happen. So much heartache. It’s impossible to escape. I feel like a prisoner.
To blow off steam, I attended a beer-fest in the Jack London square area of Oakland. The scene brought juices back the body. Three hundred flavors to choose from. By the tenth drink I felt drowsy, but relaxed. Everywhere I turned there was beautiful women dressed in skimpy outfits and meatheads puffing out their chests, flexing a pathetic muscle of testosterone. Ah, the ignorance of youth. I broke away and took a walk down the Amtrak train tracks, parallel to the Waterfront Hotel. After ten minutes, I found myself in the middle of a secluded area. I looked to my right and left and didn’t see a single person. A loud scream caught the ear, with a high pitch of fear. At first I shrugged off the noise but it grew louder. I ran across the street and turned left. What I witnessed set me back a couple of heartbeats. Two Oakland beat cops beating the crap out of a young black kid. One of the cops noticed my presence, telling me not to move. I put my hands in the air. A crew cut muscle head approached, with his bulging biceps stretching out his uniform. He asked what I was doing around these parts. His words came out cocky. I told him about the beer-fest and how I wanted to take a walk to collect my thoughts. He looked to his partner, a slim Chinese bull, then back at me. “Turn around,” he said, “spread your legs”. I accommodated the request. The Chinese cop told the black guy he was beating the shit out of, to get lost and have the money by Monday morning. A light bulb went off in my head. I was in the presence of two dirty cops and what I witnessed had been a good old fashioned shakedown. I pled my case to the boys in blue. “I won’t say anything sir,” I said. Mr. Crew Cut got in my face, telling me to shut the fuck up. His partner came up and grabbed my wrist, trying to turn my arm. I told them I didn’t want any trouble. They laughed. “You stumbled upon the wrong situation,” the Chinese cop said. Another light bulb went off. All the pleading in the world wasn’t going to get me out of this. I was collateral damage. These crooked fucks had to kill me. My ass was fucked. I knew taking out two cops would be a bad move but what choice did I have? So I asked them point-blank if I’m on the endangered species list. They both chuckled and simultaneously nodded their heads. The Chinese cop told me it’s nothing personal but they couldn’t have any concerned citizens running around accusing the police of harassment.
The anger rose from the stomach. My entire body shook, like I drank a pot of coffee. My knees turned to jelly and my heart raced. Killing 6 people had numbed me but this was different. These boys in blue were supposed to be the g
ood guys. Protectors of the night.
Two dead cops bring a lot of heat but I wasn’t gonna lie down. So, I acted. I wasn’t searched beforehand. I dug into my crotch area and pulled out Mr. 38, spun around and shot the Chinese cop in the chest, sending him to the ground. The crew cut bull reached for the holster on his hip but before he had a chance to draw down on me I plugged him in the arm. I didn’t want to kill him yet. I wanted him to watch me murder his worthless partner in cold blood. I stood over the Chinese cop. He held his chest but I didn’t see any blood. His bulletproof vest kept him alive and kicking but that came to an end when I looked him dead in the eyes asking him if he was ready to visit the afterlife. I don’t know why I said it. Maybe the anger suffocated my emotions. He glared a defiant grin of superiority, thinking he didn’t deserve to be put in this situation. One shot to the head is all it took. I turned around, aimed at Mr. Crew Cut. His pleas were compassionate. The son of a bitch had the nerve to tell me about his wife and daughter and how sad they would be if I killed him. I called his wife a cunt and told him his daughter is going to grow up to be a stripper, shaking her ass for dead presidents. His face turned red. He wanted to kill me. It was in his eyes. I liked that. I asked him if he is ready to visit the afterlife. He broke down, sobbing. To be honest the scene made me happy. This big tough cop begging for one more chance at life. For what? I thought. So he could kill more innocent people?
I didn’t give a shit if these bozos ripped off drug dealers. More power to them but when you hurt innocent people, you’ve got to be put out of commission.
Confessions of a Vigilante Page 2