Excerpt for Dead Crows: Vengeance Never Sleeps by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

Dead Crows: Vengeance Never Sleeps

by John J.

Published by John J. at Smashwords

Copyright © 2018 John J.

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Dead Crows

Jason and Jennifer were two oddballs, on the opposite end of the weight scale, clinically obese, both of them. He was a low thyroid weighing 171 pounds at five foot two, though his wife was convinced he was an inch taller. Only when he wore boots he guessed.

Perky man boobs, gut fitting shirts, he was just glad that the clinical trials cleared the white psoriasis patches that plagued his head, on the side and the back and the scalp. He’d grated the white patches off his legs with his nails, or his wife’s, until his thighs and calves were littered with tiny powdered donuts with cherry in the middle.

Now he just needed to heal his thyroid and up his testosterone levels up to normal range.

Jennifer had boobs all over. She was up to two hundred and two pounds and five foot eight, a woman with the figure of a Godzilla; huge thighs and arms that slapped around silly during an orgasm. And the volume of her voice, a raging storm with words that forced you to think. Like a roaring T-Rex with her head over the trees. The vocal intensity, the many arguments, would blast any animosity away quietly. Otherwise, she had a very strong pacifying nature and having a heart of generous charity.

Her son was a bearded bear at a young age, eighteen, though he was more like sixteen. He was at that age where he’d be convinced an order of protection would save his life after what problems his bullying would have caused.

Everybody knew it, but even her own family and friends seemed out to harm her, even strangers. Jason was convinced they were just selfish, pigheaded rats making themselves fat with their cheese before the betrayal came, like clockwork. His theory underlying that was simple; they had Mexican blood mixed into Salvadoran great grandmother. He was only one of a handful of Puerto Ricans in California.

And Mexicans are notorious for making a sport out having affairs and then going back to each other in some dramatic display of romance. His step-son was soon to face the opportunity to go back with his son’s mother, though the whole world knew she was some dude’s sperm retainer. Jason wondered if he’d kiss her in the mouth again.

He was a deep thinker of the highest caliber and she made decisions on the spot, which he hated. It took them a long, strenuous conversation over how to communicate with the mother of their grandkid through Instagram. Though the girl, in her twenties, but still warm in the body of a thirteen year old, was on bad terms with the father. It wasn’t going to stop them from seeing their little nugget.

She’d be unnerved by his rants, likely a manifestation of his decade long untreated paranoid schizophrenia. But she’d laugh the tension away watching him pull off his smoke pipe, a new cannabis strain each time.

They were home, one Monday after the Saturday night their son left because he was bothered of her correction over how strongly he spoke to her two year old grandson. The cutest little nugget you’d ever seen, who was only frustrated because he had a speech impediment and was a bundle of energy.

Throwing items against the floor or walls or at people whenever mad or playing around was one of the things that troubled his father. Pulling his grandmother’s hair when mad was a natural reflex. The other issue was his comparing his mother’s good advice with his grandmother’s violent change of personality, a true blue Gemini.

She was actually a Cancer as far as horoscopes, though for Jason, she had the duality of opposite faces. One moment she was pacifying you and the other, in a loud, vocal fit. She had to be a Gemini.

That’s how Jason knew her, ever since just about two weeks into first living in Palmdale, California. It was Jennifer’s three bedroom apartment, maintaining a thousand dollar rent, utilities, groceries, clothes and take out. She had a full house, too. Her sister and her son, her son and grandson with his mother.

Jason had joined Ana with a shovel to burry the trash, the burn it because she couldn’t pay the trash disposal fee. She was in debt, bad credit score and owing from several loans. And they wouldn’t pay back whatever she needed to borrow from them for gas to go to work.

He’d never forget her alternate, a raging woman, bursting with loud criticisms and scolding’s.

In Jason’s mind, he never spoke to Bryan with a strong tone, though he gave him plenty of reason to be upset. So why should he treat the little boy so blunt and with intensity in his voice. Most of the time had more frequently become scolding time.

That Monday was special, because Jason gave his wife cannabis to smoke. He placed the double exhaust fan in the window and they puffed out of his chrome green smoke pipe.

“I think the smoke still stayed on my lips,” said Jennifer, as she lay crooked on the bed, after she’d smoked her first pulls of Dosidos. It was a Cannabis strain her husband Jason acquired legally from The Green Mile, a medical marijuana dispensary across the street from their apartment. Jason gave her the smoke pipe with a strain meant to relieve Jennifer’s fibromayalgia pain.

But there was a deeper pain, deeper than the muscle tenderness, one having her talking stupid. And it wasn’t just the weed high.

She said, “My lips feel like ash,....slippery smooth,” her lips gestured repeatedly like the lips of a fish gasping for air. Or like a baby chic begging food from its mother. Or like a horny wife starved by a sexless marriage or just, too infrequent sex starved marriage. It wasn’t so with her husband, for him, he was suffering the symptoms of an extremely low thyroid, thirty six to be exact, including testosterone below clinical levels.

However, he managed that a few moments later to ejaculate insider her mouth, after thrusting what erection the moment could offer, before she left to spit it out on the bathroom sink.

He offered later to suck on her clitoris until she released her frustrations, but it’d just make her giggle, ticklish.

Jason went back to editing a scene.

In Jason’s mind, things were translated differently, metaphorically. Every word, either spoken or written, had a relation to many other words. Ash was black–connoted to black dudes because one shouted her ass was fat and juicy–which was compounded by her dream of a black man holding house keys invited her to dinner knowing she was married to Jason, whom he suspected was their new Landlord Chris.

It can’t be, he thought.

Slippery smooth with connoted to sperm on her lips. Hence, in his mind, she was begging for sex and Jason couldn’t get it hard. But he gave it to her, that first full load out of his nut sack which had spun sperm for the past couple of weeks.

He snacked on cucumber chips in a firm stance on eating right, as he examined the words on his laptop screen. With a slow metabolism, clinical obese at five foot two and with a severe lack of sexual desire, he had to start working towards a better thyroid. He was taking 200 mcg when he was prescribed 1.25 mcg by a sarcastic Indian Endocrinologist. He’d been taking 50 mcg for a whole two years because the previous young, Chinese doctor recommended to schedule a follow up six months up to a year later.

Jason didn’t and even worse, never refilled his prescriptions and took the bottle of 90 pills scattered throughout the two years, possibly longer.

Jason needed a quick mega boost, and had researched a clinical that offered T-injections, $125 once a week. He’d just been approved for a Capital One credit limit of $300. Four names were authorized users on that card; himself, his wife, his daughter and her son.

They’d never met. Not even over the phone. The side effect of which was a boiling temper for a moment of each day. It was a huge dishonor that lingered for coming on three years since June 15th, 2015. It was now Monday, March 05, 2018.

During their first year, their sex life consisted of Jason making her orgasm up to six times in a row ended up as a sparse one premature ejaculation every session in under a minute. He’d have to use his fingers as he sucked on one nipple until she exploded in orgasm that left her panting for minutes. It wasn’t because she was out of shape, over two hundred pounds for a woman five foot eight.

It wasn’t entirely his fault, do to his low thyroid, but because she was restricted of sex by her surgeon for about two weeks. On that Monday, after puffing her three first pulls of Dosidos, an already powerful strain that’s recommended for pain. She’d called off of work because of pain all over her body. Jason’s pathetic massage didn’t work, so he opted for dosing her. She’d just had her vagina scraped, polyps removed, so for him it was perfect, especially if it’d put her to sleep.

It didn’t. She was the type to mumble incoherent things while under Night Time Theraflu.

But Jason wasn’t a quitter and everyone knew that, about, at least. He felt bad about himself whenever he’d see his wife feeling horny and saying it. She was the blunt type, no filter in her words. In her mind, life was just about people, having conversations and treating them to nice things, always at her expense. The worst of it was the many times people hurt her by detaching away in undeserved animosity.

She mumbled something as Jason added narrative to a television transcript he downloaded from Simply Scripts. There was a disclosure notice at the top warning to respect the copyright of the authors, but he was driven to profit from it anyway.

He needed more money, though between them they racked up 4,500 a month. She was a state employee and he collected the amount of one of her checks through disability insurance.

He was supposed to take antipsychotic medications for a diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia, but he stopped over a decade ago under claims that it turned him into a vegetable and lead him to impotence. Go figure, he still ended up with a propensity for a softness in the genital area.

But the sign of the decline had been there for years, though manageable, still oozing madness out his mind.

He’d rearranged the dialogue lines, formatted the text, changed their names and after creating a digital book cover in Canvas, he’d publish it on Smashwords. The Account wasn’t even his own. He’d been banned, but stole his wife’s sister’s identity he kept for her online tax preparations on Tax Slayer. All he needed was a new PayPal account registered to an account and then transfer those funds onto his personal PayPal where he could transfer the funds to his Chase bank account.

And their sex ritual was the same every time; her flat against the bed while he did all the work. And she was over two hundred and eighty one pounds of hard work and he was a bloated one hundred and sixty one. Struggle was a faded understatement.

What compounded heavily the memory of such demeaning memory was the fact that the endocrinologist expressed the opposite of extra t-injections. Jason’s face wrinkled into disgust as he’d repeated his stance on not giving Testosterone injections due to the likely chance of leading to a heart attack or stroke. He said the decline of testosterone was related to the low thyroid hormones, which in fact was a high number.

But Jason was knowledgeable enough and in his mind more testosterone was no different than two Aleve’s, two 50mg DHEA capsules, or two grams of cannabis strains melted in pure tablespoon of butter, strained and sipped in a hot cup of Earl Grey Tea up to six times between 5:30 am and 3:00 pm. The caffeine he needed scattered throughout the day, not just because he loved the way it warmed his chilled bones, also interfered with the Synthroid. After reading an article on choosing taking Synthroid at bedtime, an hour after the last meal, six hours before the last caffeine intake, he did just that. It worked for him, since it freed him to have the tools that kept him alive during the day; caffeine, fiber, more caffeine.

Though lately, rather than having steamed carrots as he planned, he caved in frequently, especially over the weekends, to donuts, milk chocolate bars and ice cream. He was already standing six feet underground and he’d just voluntarily added dirt over himself.

He saw these things when he had consumed cannabis, either by tea of a gram worth of two powerful strains, Sour Diesel and Dosidos.

His collection also included a gram of Blue Dream, Purple Punch, Pink Panther, with a free extra gram of Blue Dream.

Cannabis was his immediate self-prescribed solution to his brain fog, memory problems and blunted focus. It was a condition that required special treatment and understanding so that people wouldn’t just think that he was incompetent and socially awkward, restless and impulsive.

One thing about cannabis was his reluctance to eat junk food while on the high. He went without for the past weekend that they had their grandchild Jimmy with them, at least until Saturday, before Jason woke up Sunday morning to find that their son had called the mother to pick him up and he left as well. That day, it was three cups of Earl Grey with infused Canna-butter, one chopped cucumber and later on, salmon and white and brown rice by 12:06pm.

He scuffed it down quickly, typing between chewing as she watched another episode of Friends, The One With Ross’ Step Forward.

She had the rest of an old panang sauce with over rice, no roasted chicken, which she ate with delight from the munchies the weed gave her. She wanted a bologna sandwich with mayo and mustard in white bread and a Snicker’s Ice cream bar.

He went into the bathroom for no apparent reason, looked at his face in the mirror, then returned to the bedroom to stand before the laptop. He didn’t want to encourage conversations with her. He was high and she was ruining it with nonsense babble.

They lived in California, having moved from Palmdale, to Santa Fe Springs, to unit B of the duplex units next to theirs. They left that place due to black mold in the vent, which Jason confirmed after collection ten seconds worth of airing bacteria into a petri dish. Since he’d sealed the vents with plastic bags under the vent cover on both bedrooms and the living room. The black mold was in addition to the lead, confirmed by an EPA validated test, was a curse. He was convinced it was a curse, though the rent was a thousand dollars a month and away of issues with disgruntled daughters of their previous landlord. He had already imagined, meeting them inside the unit and kill both of them, old Indian vultures. No one would miss them. Lucky for them, they decided to meet up at a local diner to swap $1,450 check for keys.

They only left Santa Fe Springs because Jason told them that Hailey, their new baby German Shepherd barked too early in the morning, before his wife had to get up for work.

Jennifer worked in the city of Glendale, about an hour away, so her beauty sleep was very beautiful.

Perhaps God was made at him for publishing erotica into a secret Smashwords account, or, by defying the urban legend passed down to him by his neighbor, Luis. He believed that crows were vengeful and if bothered, would remember them, even their following generations of offspring, to suddenly poke the eyes out of the unsuspecting victim. One day, while keeping a .177 pellet 357 break barrel air gun, he shot three times at a crow nearby after he parked his wife’s gray Dodge Journey. He didn’t hit the crow, the crow just flew away, but in his soul, he defied a great threat. He was more than just defiant. He stared Death in its face and shot at it.

He also had a .22 Benjamin Prowler long break barrel rifle with a 70% silencer. He’d only use it to shoot a few rats dead, that he’d caught from laying traps, but he wouldn’t shoot at other living things. Not because he didn’t have what it takes, his was still an animal lover, but because he reserved it for shooting homeless black people during the cold, black midnight hours. He’d hope to leave one, with his face in the sand, like a crows was left for months without decomposition. That’s how cold it gets out in the mountain parts of California.

The idea entered his head, just recently, of blowing up three brand new co2 canisters. He’d already watched single canister explosions on YouTube. It was loud. It was powerful. What pleasure it would have been for Jason to blow one up while everyone slept, a sock drenched in lighter fluid, holding three canisters tied together and thrown out onto the middle of the street a few units down or on the back road behind the units. It would have continued the sonic booms that came out of Edwards Air Force Base that rumbled the plexi glass windows in the area, but at night.

This was a challenge as sometimes Jason had walked around at around six, before the sun came out to walk his wife to either the Dodge or their Toyota, and they’d walk around in the dark. This was a problem since there were bloods in the area, he could tell from their obvious obsession with matching red in their clothes and having no work life. If he were noticed and identified he’d have a problem with no telling how many.

Aiming from his back door, between the wooden fence was a potential solution. Still, the shot sounded like deep pop. The neighbor had already seen the rifle on Jason’s bed. He was a potential witness. How much of a secret can a short old Cuban keep between eight black dudes twice his height?

Jason needed to keep his head up to deal with so many issues, they kept him on high alert, hence, the need for caffeine and cannabis.

One time, while writing a new scene for an untitled new book, he wrote knowlegeable instead of knowledgeable. He examined the red squiggly line under the text on Microsoft Word. Typos are common while typing your thoughts, but a daily writer should have just corrected that. Except Jason was confused, and used Google to correct the spelling for him. It was humiliating to say the least, but Jason had a will power drive underneath the dark daily weight of his symptoms and side effects.

Sometimes, his mind was like a blackboard, words and images quickly fading into the dark void like mist in a briskly air. On others, his thoughts formed into constellations of interconnected ideas. He expressed it as trigonometric shapes on his whiteboard, triangulating words and flipping triangles within a color coded sphere. The integers on the dimensions were not measured by numbers, but by words. Specifically, the horizontal dimensional measured the subject of a sentence, as the vertical dimension the predicate. It was parallel to the Cartesian Coordinate System in that, in the same way the point of the vertical y was dependent to the horizontal x dimension, the predicate functioned as what is being said about the subject of the sentence.

A long time ago, the values were, “Plata o plomo,” a dialogue line from Pablo Escobar from the Netflix Series Narcos. It translated to “Silver or lead,” referring to accept my business or get shot, as one of his passenger side riders came out holding an automatic weapon in his hand, joining Pablo’s ultimatum to the two top border guards.

On the triangles’ red lined hypotenuse he wrote Threatening Ultimatum diagonally along its line to distinguish between three other triangles. The other triangles were flipped along the longer sides of each triangle. He applied a system of positive and negative values so the words reflected such. The words on the side labeled “Silver”, translated to the horizontal side of another triangle underneath as “Pay me” or I’ll stop working,” which had a theta value called Negotiating Ultimatum.

Its opposite triangle had a Persuasive Ultimatum, from the “I’ll stop working, unless you pay me.”

The one flipped

Over a decade later, the hypotenuse upgraded to describing the point of view of it all. The theta of the angle was Narcos to represent the power and intensity of the line.

In Jason’s mind, trying to infer a spiritual reason for his sudden problems, he attributed them to him being like a contagious plague, the bacteria would have been his restrained anger, to the point of brown patches on his forehead—but a biopsy declared it simply psoriasis—and getting everyone around him “sick” enough to despise and hated him.

The psoriasis was a condition that would later get to a clinical trial in Anaheim, a biologic injection worth untaxed $100 every visit, whether it was a 15 minute blood collection to a two night stay, cable and internet included. They served as isolated vacations, like living in a mental institution where contact with the outside world was prohibited.

Jennifer left some rice, which she forked after going cold, still talking about wanting a Snicker’s ice cream. Jason ignored it.

He called Benz, the trash disposal company to let them know his trash bin was missing the lid after the truck passed by. He had fussed to his wife about the company charging him from the $75 insurance deposit for the bin, something that would suggest another sign of a curse. In spite of his paranoid suspicions he handled the phone call quiet well, calm and relaxed. A driver would replace it with a new one at no extra charge. Jason sunk into a sense of peace, but one that’d only last a few seconds before replaced with another issue.

Jason was the constantly moving type, restless, he’d boil water in the microwave in the kitchen, walk back to the room to type some more and then go back to his bedroom at the far end of the apartment. He’d return to the kitchen at the three microwave beeps to boil his cup of noodles, place a sauce pan lid and leave it there on the kitchen counter for the two or so minutes it takes to boil the noodles. Meanwhile, he’d by typing some more.

Jennifer asked him if he would go out an get a Snickers ice cream bar again, but he just ignored her. He’d do things like this and tackle whatever chore he’d find along the way, all in the speed of walking his regular warm up speed of 4.0 miles per hour on the treadmill.

It was the same throughout the streets, though he’d given up walking for driving. He drove just as fast, always above the speed limit. He only got stopped once because the officer was looking for drunk drivers. Jason was under the effects of Cannabis, but not drunk. He passed the finger test without a problem. He didn’t get a ticket.

“Baby?” Jennifer called out, the craving for ice cream in her tone.

Jason stopped typing and said, “Yes?” But two seconds later he stormed out of the room and onto the kitchen again, to strain the water off the cup of noodles and fork some on his way back.

He stood behind the television again, where his laptop was, sitting on the dresser counter. She couldn’t see him and he couldn’t see her, but that wasn’t the reason for having them back to back. He wasn’t sure why, but that’s just how things ended up. It did make him feel more comfortable, perhaps, a little isolated.

She wanted some so he gave her the cup and returned to typing.

After she returned the rest of the cup of noodles she went to the kitchen to make her own.

She complained of something when Jason went to her to find a spill in the microwave, she’d microwaved the water in the cup of noodles.

“You’re not supposed to microwave it. What I do is microwave a tupperware of water, then pour that into the cup and place a lid on it, (Jason ripped the rest of the foam cups lid and placed a glass lid on the cup of noodles), and let it sit there a few minutes.”

He wiped what liquid spilled onto the microwave plate as she left. He watched her walk away in a queenly stride, which he interpreted as his cue to carry the cup of noodles in one hand, holding the lid with the other behind her.

“I shall proceed behind you my queen,” said Jason, jokingly, as he stepped into the living room.

“No, I don’t need you to take it for me. I wanted to add Tapatio sauce and lemon.” Jennifer had a tupperware cup with corn chips, avocado and ranchero cheese. She obviously had the munchies, but at least it wasn’t junk food, mostly.

Jason stopped at the threshold of their bedroom door as she forked some noodles, and said, “I’ll get you ice cream later.”

“No you won’t,” said Jennifer. She considered just a second as she forked noodles into her mouth.

“Okay,” said Jason, in an about face back into the room. He thought he’d treat her after a long missed blowjob, but he was better off letting her eat as healthy as possible.

Jason brought her a side of green sauce that he remembered was stored on the top shelf of the fridge, but she was okay eating it dry though he brought it to her.

Her munchies rubbed off on her husband. He followed his carbohydrate cravings to one of his grandson’s Peppa Pig bag of cookies he knew was still in a cupboard. He drowned the dryness with water from a jug he kept in his bedroom.

He stood before his laptop, his fingertips on the keyboard, thinking of what to write next. Then words from a novel he’d read streamed across his mind, Soft belly…jelly organs….stabbing…

He was tired of writing Erotica and Romance. He needed to vent the horror brewing within him. He was a psychopathic Author in the making.

“Baby!” she’d repeated, annoyingly.

Couldn’t she see he didn’t want to be bothered. The strands of creativity in his delicate mind clashed against the abruptness of her nagging tone, like a crow pecking his head.

And California was home to the crows.

One in particular, a dead crow, stood out on the desert for over a month. It wouldn’t decompose because the night air was too cold. Its jet black body of feathers would stay intact, as if just napping.

He wondered again, of leaving the black dudes of Diamond Street dead, perhaps with a note in their mouths for the detectives to find that read: Black Lives Don’t Matter. That would certainly make for a good story, splattered all over facebook.

He didn’t use his facebook account, but everybody else had one. He’d use his wife’s facebook account to post the crimes he’d commit and then make a meme out of it.

His wife would have left him, or at least make the biggest deal out of it. She was a self-employed Judger and they’d often clash because of it. He was more of a prosecutor or a defendant, either or, he preferred the elegance of the argument than the strength of the final decision.

But there was a final decision Jason needed to make and it all came down to this: Kill. Not murder. It sounded too formal. Just kill, brutally, preferably.

Jason peered beside the television that stood before his laptop, his face. He did so slowly so as to see her without detection. He didn’t want to provoke a conversation.

She sat there, staring into her cell phone, likely scrolling through facebook.

He looked to his right, to his rifle, a Benjamin Prowler with a misaligned scope and a .22 caliber Pirranha pellet in the chamber. It was a break barrel rifle so all he needed to do is pull the trigger. He always wondered what kind of damage it would do to a human being shot in the face. Will the person die, suffer in pain, or shoot up and retaliate?

It was just her and him in the house. Her son had left to his aunt’s apartment in Palmdale. He recalled her son’s first temper tantrum behind his mother’s skirt. He accused Jason of being deceiving, a loser dude, though he was the one who ended up losing everything. He should’ve kept his mouth shut. Jason was the vengeful type, the kind that never forgets.

Jason had arranged to put his extended child support under his feet, after months of keeping his son from them. That certainly brought him back to his mother, about a week of cutting of the four hundred dollars a month. And his father’s ten dollar checks every three months wasn’t cutting the expensive computer equipment he needed.

What kid needs three monitors? Jason thought.

For the time he’d been staying there, in the next bedroom, he contemplated killing him in the morning just before he went to sleep. Bryan was a night owl who stayed awake all night playing video games or managing a website so he didn’t have to work a regular job and live off of his mother and her husband. He was used to having everything for free with the audacity to act stupid whenever things didn’t go his way. It always came in the way of you can’t see my son then.

The patience it took for Jason to tolerate that from Bryan was immeasurable and had drained the last molecule of energy when he got mad that his mother scolded his bullying tone over the verbally disabled toddler. It replayed in his mind. Selfish jerk!

She’d woken up early one morning, crying with a deep sorrow because in the dream she found her son with his head buried in the dirt. And he was able to make that dream come true.

Jennifer made a seductive, almost orgasmic sound, as she scrolled through her cell phone. Jason could see it though he was blocked by the television again. It sounded to him like she flirted with another man’s picture, as testing Jason to see how far she could go. He was already convinced she confused his kindness for weakness. So did her son and a whole lot of other people. It was time for that to change.

Jason picked up the black, heavy rifle from standing against a corner of the room. He lifted it before him, his right index finger pushed the safety trigger away, his left hand by the end of the barrel. His wife made another seductive sound, like she was looking at pastries and cakes. Chances are she was, but in Jason’s head she was taunting him.

He held the Prowler like a soldier on patrol. Prowler, a fitting name for him, since he’d been on the prowl to commit murder, only it was so subtle no one could tell. He walked over towards her along the side of the bed, but looking towards the open door at his right. She lay on the right edge of the bed at his left, her face glowing with delight. He had the tensed face of a bored killer and breaking through the soft initial hesitation, aimed the tip of the silencer on the barrel, which guaranteed it 70% quieter than it would have sounded normally.

She pulled her face away from her cell phone, behind the silencer, her eyes bold with fury. “You better get that away from my face!”

Jason pulled the trigger, the pellet pierced the top of her left eyelid, between the skull.

He gazed intently, a slight shock of fear in his heart, but overwhelmed by curiosity and relief from putting an end to her insolence. The bad taste of her audacity still salted in his mouth.

Jason saw the open hole in her skin and blood quickly squirted out.

Oh shit!

Jason glanced towards the hallway, then snapped his head back at her again.

He couldn’t tell how deep the pellet went through. He inched his way closer to her face. He detected a movement in her face.

He knew that the mice he’d shoot while still alive on their mousetraps died exploded, quickly, and expected the same might occur through as much soft tissues as possible all the way through to piercing the brain.

It did.

He picked up her cell phone from the floor and sure enough, she was watching YouTube videos on delicious recipes.


Now how was he to lug two hundred pounds of fat flesh, motionless, with a sprained elbow and fatigue issues?

He needed a powerful Sativa, Durban Poison, if he were to drag her body out of the duplex unit undetected, thrown on the back seat of the white Toyota Yaris IA and driven to Walmart first to buy a shovel. Then a McDonald’s drive through for the calories he’d need to carry her and dig the hole possibly all night. Then, he’d drive to Mojave Desert, with all the prescriptions bottles of strains from the local medical marijuana dispensary. He’d need that, too.

While, all this going through his head and suffered a bout of remorse, heavy on the body. It drained him physically for a moment. He stepped back, as if ashamed and depressed, sorrowful. How could he have killed his first wife?

He was sure she would come back to haunt him.

Then, he thought of her son, still alive about twenty minutes away from where they lived. He knew his task wasn’t over.

Jason thought, deeply, for a few loud seconds.

I can just blame my wife’s murder on blacks, that’ll sweep Rosamond of low lives, pick which ever six from a lineup from the neighborhood. Then, I’ll take out that finger-pointing rat.

He inserted another pellet into the rifle.

His thoughts had drained his mental energy, and feeling fatigued, even the rifle was too heavy. He walked around the dresser and around the bed and threw himself next to his wife, the rifle over his chest. The bed was king sized so there was a good space between them.

“Well,” said Jason, as he stared into the ceiling. “Guess I’m too tired to play serial killer.”

Jason picked up the rifle and placed the tip of the silencer flat against his right temple and shot.

On his laptop computer screen were a single string of words: They’re going to wish they’ve accepted me. They’re going to wish it really, really bad.

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