by Donn Cortez
Simple courtesy, he thought as he changed lanes. Why is that such a rare commodity?
The driver of the SUV made a point of leaning over and giving him the finger as he blew past. The man was in his thirties, wearing a gray suit with a yellow tie, his face red and contorted in anger.
Stoltz met the man’s glare with a slight smile. Once the vehicle was past, he noted the licence plate number and wrote it down on a pad mounted on the dash.
Stoltz’s job wasn’t terribly exciting, but it did have its advantages. He worked at the Department of Motor Vehicles.
Most of his time was spent in his cubicle, doing data entry. That was fine with Stoltz; the less he had to deal with the public the better. Most of his coworkers were reasonably polite—at least to him—and data never argued. It simply was what it was.
His cubicle was neat but sparse. A framed landscape of Mt. Fuji, done in the Japanese style, hung on one wall; everything else was work-related. A black coffee mug sat on a cork coaster on his desk beside a neat pile of papers.
Any DMV record he cared to look up was his to access, but he always took special care to hide his tracks when indulging his private hobby. He used his supervisor’s password to get into the system, and routed all his requests through one of the terminals at the front counter—none of his actions would show up on his own computer.
The registered owner of the SUV was one Peter New. His driver’s license listed his address as 6090 West Summervale Street; he weighed two hundred pounds, had green eyes and black hair and needed corrective lenses to drive. Stoltz guessed he had been wearing contacts.
Not that it would matter.
The next morning Stoltz spotted the same SUV on the freeway. This time, he followed it to the parking lot of a Denny’s, and pulled in across the street.
He went inside and spotted New at the counter. He sat down on the stool beside him.
“Hi,” Stoltz said pleasantly. “Remember me?”
New looked up. “No,” he said. “Should I?”
“That depends on whether you’re as stupid as you are rude,” Stoltz said.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ll have a coffee, please,” Stoltz said to the waitress. She nodded and put down a cup and saucer.
“You drive like young people fuck,” Stoltz said, turning back to New. “Too fast and too frantic. Personally, I don’t care if you wrap yourself around a lamppost, but I’d rather you didn’t take someone else with you.”
“Wait a minute. I remember you,” New said. The confusion on his face was replaced with recognition. “You were the jerk driving slow in the fast lane—”
“And you were the jerk with his dick on the gas pedal,” Stoltz said. He added a teaspoon of sugar to his coffee and stirred it slowly. “Although I guess that big SUV is all dick, isn’t it? Right down to the prick behind the wheel.”
“That’s right, pal,” New said. “And I’ll fuck up anything that gets in my way—including you. Got me?” He poked Stoltz in the shoulder, hard.
“Oops,” Stoltz said. “Careful. I might spill—”
He tossed the coffee in New’s face.
“—my coffee,” he finished calmly.
New screamed. He lurched backward off the stool, clawing at his scalded face—
No. That wasn’t quite right. Back up.
“That’s right, pal. And I’ll fuck up anything that gets in my way,” New said. “Including you.”
Stoltz put down his coffee and stood up. “I don’t think so. You can buy a four-wheeled, chrome-plated penis substitute, but you can’t buy the balls to go with it.”
New snarled and lunged from his seat, throwing a wild punch at Stoltz’s head. Stoltz dodged it easily. He retaliated with a quick jab to the man’s midsection, doubling him over, then smashed his knee into the man’s face, knocking him up and back with blood fountaining from his nose—
No. Too messy. Besides, who knows what he might have? Safety first.
—retaliated with an elbow to New’s windpipe, sending the man staggering backward, choking and sputtering. A lightning-fast spin-kick slammed Stoltz’s foot into New’s jaw and dropped him unconscious to the floor.
A girl sitting alone at a nearby booth stood up. She was pretty, with a spray of freckles across her face. “That was amazing,” she said. “That guy totally deserved it. I saw the way he drove.”
Stoltz smiled at her. “Well, people should think more about the consequences of their actions,” he said. “Driving is a privilege, not a right.”
“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” she asked with a grin.
“Sure—but let’s go someplace else,” he replied. “This place has trash all over the floor….”
Yes. Yes, much better.
He came back to himself slowly, hands poised over his keyboard. His screen was filled with the number five, typed over and over while he fantasized.
Except—it wasn’t really a fantasy, was it? No. It was more of a…romantic exaggeration. The process would differ, but the end result would be the same.
For Mr. New, anyway.
Jack dumped Djinn-X’s body into the Green River. He removed the hands first.
Usually Jack wanted his targets to be quickly found and identified—this time was different. He needed Djinn-X’s death to remain a secret, at least from the other members of The Pack. That meant that all the information Jack had on Djinn-X’s murders also had to be kept secret, at least for now.
For the first time since he’d become the Closer, Jack felt no sense of finality when he disposed of a killer’s body. The families of Djinn-X’s victims would sleep no easier tonight; their questions would remain unanswered for another day. For them, in a very real sense, the person who took away their loved ones was still loose in the world.
For three consecutive days, Stoltz got up an hour early—at 4:44, to be precise—and switched the plates on his Taurus with another set before driving to the suburb where Peter New lived. Stoltz parked across the street and studied New’s routine.
New was married, but had no children. His wife, a plump blonde, left for work twenty minutes before he did. By the time her car—a red Toyota Supra—was at the end of the block, the automatic door on their two-car garage was only half shut. There was a three-foot gap between the garage and the six-foot fence that bordered their property that seemed ideal, and no one else on the block seemed to be pulling out of their driveway at the same time New’s wife left.
On the fourth day, Stoltz parked in the alley behind the News’ house. He wore a black trenchcoat and carried a black umbrella, opened and angled slightly forward and down to hide his face. He walked briskly to the end of the alley, up the block and down the street to the News’ house. He stopped, pretended to check his watch and glanced around. Nobody in sight.
He closed his umbrella and walked up the News’ driveway, then around the corner of the garage. There was nothing there but the fence, a stack of lumber, and the side of the building. He leaned against the wall and took long, deep breaths. His heart was pounding; it was beginning.
When New’s wife left ten minutes later, he waited until her car was out of sight, then darted around the corner. He easily ducked under the closing garage door.
The SUV hulked beside him, pale silver in the early morning glow of the garage’s single window. Stoltz regarded it as he slipped on a pair of surgical gloves; it reminded him of a sleeping dinosaur, some huge carnivore hunkered down for the night before another day of roaring through the blacktop jungle, terrorizing anything in its way. It was tempting to think about emasculating that power, slashing the tires and pouring sugar in the gas tank—but that would be blaming the body.
Simpler and more elegant to kill the brain.
He dropped the umbrella and took the pistol out of the pocket of his trenchcoat. The gun looked rather ridiculous at the moment, because it had a potato securely duct-taped over the end of the barrel. He’d read about the trick on Djinn-X’s website; it made for a cheap and disp
osable silencer. It wasn’t entirely quiet, but it muffled a gunshot enough that it would probably be mistaken for a backfire or firecracker. He also put on a pair of safety goggles—the potato could be rather messy.
Of course, it was only good for one shot. Stoltz liked that; it increased the level of risk, added to the challenge. Otherwise, it would be too easy.
He tried the door between the garage and the house—unlocked. He opened it and stepped inside.
He crept down the hall. Ugly orange carpet. White walls. Door on the right, closed. Noise ahead to the left.
End of the hall. Stairs on the right, living room ahead.
He peered around the corner to the left. Peter New was seated at the kitchen table, reading the paper and eating a bowl of cereal. His back was to Stoltz, but it looked like he was wearing the same suit as he had on the day they met.
There was a sliding glass door on the far wall. If New looked up, he would probably see Stoltz’s reflection in it.
He stepped around the corner. New didn’t look up. He raised the gun to the back of Stoltz’s neck.
“Driving is a privilege,” Road Rage whispered, and pulled the trigger.
It didn’t take Jack and Nikki long to get set up in Portland.
Another run-down house in a run-down neighborhood. Another landlord who took cash and didn’t ask questions. Another trip to the Home Depot to buy plywood, foam insulation and a roll of black plastic.
Dealing with an internet provider was a little trickier, but Nikki had a credit card under another name she used when she had to. She kept the account scrupulously up to date.
Jack set up the computer equipment in one of the bedrooms; he’d picked up a secondhand monitor and printer from a pawnshop downtown. It was strange, he reflected as he attached cables to the back of the tower. In a sense, this was the Stalking Ground. This chunk of plastic and metal was their tribal lodge, the place they met to trade methods and secrets and boast of their kills. It was a place they drew strength and comfort from. Jack had a sudden urge to smash the tower into a million pieces, sentence all of them back to the lonely hells they came from.
But he knew he couldn’t do that. No, he would have to walk into that lodge himself—as their leader.
DJINN-X: I gotta say, RR—that’s some great shit you pulled the other day.
ROAD RAGE: Thank you.
DJINN-X: And that picture you posted, of the guy sitting in his SUV with his driver’s license nailed to his forehead—classic! That should have been on the front page of the newspaper!
ROAD RAGE: Yes, it did show a great deal of style, didn’t it? I was tempted to mail a copy to the media, but of course they’d never run it—though they did publish my manifesto.
DJINN-X: Is it hard to drive a nail into a guy’s skull?
ROAD RAGE: Not as hard as you’d think. I’d prefer a nail gun, but the logistics of hauling an air compressor around make that unworkable.
DJINN-X: Yeah, I’ll bet.
GOURMET: I have a suggestion. Cordless technology has dramatically improved in the last decade. I find the Black and Decker MT1203K-2 Multi-Tool to be extremely powerful and efficient. I use the jigsaw attachment to remove the top of the cranium, but there’s no reason you couldn’t drill a hole of the right diameter just as easily.
ROAD RAGE: Hmmm. Sounds a little messy.
DJINN-X: Not to mention unsatisfying. I mean, driving a nail into a guy’s skull—WHACK! WHACK!
WHACK!—that’s gotta be gratifying. Even a nail gun has that solid, thunk! thunk! feel to it. But a drill—that’s kinda sterile.
GOURMET: Efficiency has its own beauty. ROAD RAGE: True. And ultimately, the message is more important than the medium….
A Few Simple Rules
By “Road Rage”
Power corrupts.
In today’s world, more and more power is concentrated in the hands of the individual. The only hope for primitive man to kill something as large as a woolly mammoth was to band together in a group; today, any cretin with an automatic weapon could destroy an entire herd.
But this isn’t an essay on gun control. It’s about a far more dangerous and pervasive weapon: the automobile.
Driving a car is having two thousand pounds of armored beast under your total control. A twitch of the wheel can wipe out a life, and let you be a hundred miles away from the crime an hour later. And how is this power restricted?
It’s not.
Society lets us drive cars before we can vote, have sex, drink alcohol, or join the armed forces. Our culture glorifies reckless driving in video games, movies, television. Driving infractions usually garner only fines, which are often simply ignored.
This is unacceptable.
Vehicles are weapons; and an armed society must be a polite society. Anything else leads to chaos.
The problem lies in the interaction between man and machine. A vehicle is not simply a method of transportation; it functions more as an actual extension of ourselves. It encases us like our skin, gives us information like our senses, moves us back or forward like our muscles. It eats, it needs a place to live, it has a voice. A man driving a car is not like a man on horseback; he’s more like a centaur. A blend of both, a mesh of metal and meat—a cyborg.
But a poorly designed one. One can imagine a herd of centaurs moving from place to place over well-established trails, the individuals moving at a gallop sticking to one trail, those moving at a trot to another; one can imagine a code of conduct, a certain caution around smaller and younger centaurs, a certain respect for the older ones. These are the simple rules that evolve in a civilized society with a large population.
But take those same creatures and cover them in armor that cuts them off from contact with each other. Increase their speed so that the slightest contact between them could cause both parties to go wildly out of control. Take away their language, so that the only method of communication left between them is the most basic of hand gestures, blinking lights and a horn. Cram them onto highways and try to make them act not like living creatures but parts of a machine: stop, go, turn left, turn right.
This system encourages the worst behaviors of man and machine. The creature that evolves is frustrated and overstressed, in control of tremendous power but forbidden to use it. Insulated from his fellow creatures but forced into close proximity with them, a herd of angry, armored beings thunders forward every day. It’s no wonder some of them go rogue.
And for the good of the herd, the rogues must be removed. Permanently.
From the Portland Oregonian, January 14:
RULES REDUCE RAGE
Are drivers in the Portland area becoming more polite—or just more afraid?
Whatever the reason, the number of reported violent incidents between drivers has dropped in the last two months by approximately thirty percent—ever since the publishing of the so-called “Road Rage Manifesto” by the Oregonian. Originally thought to be a hoax, the Manifesto was printed at the request of the police after certain details in the letter were verified.
“Our primary concern is in saving lives,” Chief Berenson said. “We saw nothing wrong in the letter being published—all it does is endorse common sense. If it had been inappropriate in some way our response would have been different. And so far, he’s kept his word—there haven’t been any more killings since it was printed.”
At least not until yesterday, when Peter New was discovered behind the wheel of his 1998 Ford Explorer.
Evidence at the scene, a police spokesperson said, confirmed it was the work of the same killer who’d struck five times before. Despite the falling number of con-
frontations between drivers, it seems local residents are still not living up to his standards.
Although the Oregoniandoes not endorse his methods, we are reprinting his demands in the interest of public safety:
1. ALWAYS signal lane changes.
2. If another driver is signaling to enter your lane, let them in.
3. Never t
ailgate.
4. Refrain from obscenities directed at other drivers, verbal or otherwise.
5. Slow down when you see a yellow light.
Five simple rules—hardly worth dying for.
DJINN-X: You disrespect a man’s wheels, you disrespect the man. ROAD RAGE: Exactly. In many ways, your vehicle is you.
DJINN-X: I remember the first car I ever owned—a ’77 Rabbit. Not very powerful, but it got me around. Did great on gas, easy to park. I can still spot one from a mile away. ROAD RAGE: Mine was a 1965 Chevy Malibu. Two-door, black. Six-cylinder engine, three-speed transmission.
DJINN-X: Nice car. I could never afford anything like that.
ROAD RAGE: The type of car you drive isn’t important. It’s how you conduct yourself behind the wheel. DJINN-X: Yeah, I get that—but to people like us, vehicle type is definitely a consideration. I mean, not so much for you or me, ’cause we generally do our kills onsite—but what about someone like the Gourmet? He’s got to get his dinner back to the kitchen. ROAD RAGE: I suppose. But wouldn’t anything with a trunk do?
DJINN-X: Not necessarily. Putting someone in a trunk means you risk being seen. Better to get them inside on their own, then you can control the situation. You don’t even need a lot of room—Ted Bundy used to do his kills in a Volkswagen Bug. Me, I prefer something with a little more room—I got an old white panel truck I picked up for cheap. White panel trucks are like fucking ghosts in any city, man—there’s so many nobody even sees them. Lots of room inside, easy to swamp out with a garden hose.
ROAD RAGE: I know what you mean. I drive a late- model white car myself—a Taurus, actually— largely because it fits in so well. Did you know that, statistically, white is the most common color among mid-size cars between five and ten years old? DJINN-X: Yeah, it does seem they’re everywhere you look. But most people never actually recognize what they’re fucking looking at, do they? I mean, when I pick out a sheep, I study them—but they never see me. I’m just another fucking bike courier, in their office to pick up or drop off more bullshit paperwork. As far as they’re concerned, I’m nonexistent.