.22

                I never liked him much, not that I'd ever taken the time to get to know him, didn't even know his name, and if the poor guy had ever figured out who I was I doubt he'd have liked me much either.  I'd robbed his store three times before and whether it was out of pure laziness, or maybe he just knew they weren't going to do anything at all, he'd never called the cops.  Never put in a security camera either, so my moneys on stupid.  But now, staring over the counter at his slumped form, curled up in a pool of ever expanding blood I couldn't help but feel a little bad for the guy.  Bald, overweight, and presumably dumb--I mean the sap ran a convenience store that got robbed more often than an addict shot up-- I wondered why anyone might even bother ending his pathetic excuse for a life.  Not that mine was much better.  But at least I refused to let society make me its bitch.  No it was the other way around, even if it meant robbing punks like him.

                I hadn't heard a gunshot, and no one was running from the place when I'd rolled up to the joint in my beat up old pick up.  The dumbass never realized he always got robbed with the same damn truck out front.  It was a little surreal looking at that pile of scum wrapped up in human skin; it was my first dead body, and it wasn't like seeing one in the movies.  Every time I walked into that place there was a sizeable chance that I ended up being the one snuffing out his flickering of a life.  All it took was him trying to be a hero.  I'd bet against that from the start though.  He just never came off as a hero type.

Coincidences are for people too damn stupid to see the connections.  At least that's what my Dad used to tell me.  Of course that was before he blew his brains out with the .22 I got him for his birthday.  Damn gun also happened to be the only lousy thing he left me.  His whore of a wife got the rest.  I guess he never realized that was the type of thing might fuck a kid up, killing yourself with the gun he gets you. Or maybe he just didn't care.  Either way that was about the only smart thing ever left his mouth.  The rest of the bullshit that spewed out of it was some form of obsessive paranoia.  I was damn glad the doc said it wasn't hereditary, just some side effect of his anti depression pills.  But either way I wasn't about to overlook the fact that a dead guy turns up right where I'm planning a job.

                I look in the register, and it's full.  But I ain't stupid enough to take anything from it.  That's just what they'd want me to do.  I have my fair share of enemies, and even longer list of people who hate me.  But weren't too many people that knew about what I was doing tonight.  And not one of them had any reason to wish me harm.  I was always good to those I loved, even bought my girl one of them pendants they've been advertising on TV.  A solid two hundred, more than I make sticking up these damn stores, and I didn't see a damn thing in return.  A peck on the cheek and an I've got work early tomorrow.  God knows why I even put up with that shit.

                It's a Tuesday night and ain't too many people out this late, but I still don't want to get tied into anything ain't none of my business.  So quiet out I could probably just haul the body out right now, but that really ain't my problem, and I 'm not into doing favors for strangers.  And I doubt murderers the type of people that return them.  So I head back to my pick up, engine’s still running.  Five minutes and I'm on the highway.  Could of gone to the game tonight, wouldn’t have none of this mess on my mind.  But at least I don’t have to deal with that traffic going in the opposite directions, headed towards those lights on the stadium.

            The door’s open when I get home.  Not a just a crack, but all the way, flapping in the wind like it a God damn Southern Baptist on Sunday.  I know they ain’t still in there, they’d have closed the door if they were planning on being there a while.  The lock’s not busted though, must have used a pick.  I could jimmy a door in ten seconds flat back when I was into that game.  Too much risk not enough reward though.  It took one red neck with a gun license, or not, to blow you away and half the houses easy enough to get into didn’t have nothing worth taking anyways.  Sure some of them had expensive plates, maybe even some jewelry, but I never knew much about that type of stuff, let alone where to get rid of it in a place sure to not get traced back to me.  Everything’s still here though.   The TV, the twenty I left on the table.  Everything.

            And then she walks in.  “Why’s it so damn cold in here David.  You can’t do shit, can’t even heat your own damn house,” she says.  The fucking nerve.  Girls like her were a dime a dozen, the only problem was I didn’t have a dime these days wasn’t already spent.  So I was stuck with her.  “Maybe because some asshole broke in while I was out and left the God damn door open,” I tell her. 

            "Yeah, or maybe you just left the door open.  Half the time I feel like I'm dating a damn retard," she says.  But that ain't like me, to be leaving the door open.  I worked damn hard for every penny spent on every last thing in that shithole.  I risked my life, and maybe worse, my damn freedom getting that money.  Ain't been caught, so seems like I ain't no fucking retard neither, not that that sneaky bitch could care less whether I be behind bars or not.   Probably figures if I go away she gets what little shit I own.  I'd burn it all up before I saw that happen.  Her problem is, she confuses a man's need to get laid for love.  Love wasn't something I reckoned to be necessary, but sex was without a doubt.  So the she-devil had me tied up there a little bit.  Knew it too.  But I sure as hell wasn't about to pay for no sex, although really, that's all she was, just a live in hooker.  Cost me one hell of a lot more though.           

            "I'm taking your truck.  Gotta go run some errands, God knows you don't," she says.  Nearly forgot she was here.  Had one thing going for her, knew when to keep her damn mouth shut.  What she was doing out at this unholy hour was beyond me, but I wasn't about to pass up some time to think.  I needed a minute to clear my head.  That damn dead guy, fucking up my night.  And that door, by itself wasn't nothing.  Any million of things could have happened, but stacked up with that damn dead guy, something was happening, something that might fuck up a little more than just my night. 

                        So I walk outside and down the stairs.   Lock the damn door behind me.  No questioning it this time.  The trucks gone, not that I care, I'd rather walk anyways.  It's gotta be at least eighty-five outside, one of those heats that seems to be coming straight up from the ground, just sitting in the air.  There's some sirens off out in the distance.  Nothing to worry about, I ain't got nothing on me, left the pistol in the truck, although I'd feel better if I had in my waistband right about now.  Most of the locals knew better than to mess with me.  You let them take your money once, and the all of a sudden your their damn cash cow.  I got a six inch scar on my head from the first time one of those punks tried to jump me.  That's why I shave my head, none of that skin head shit, just when you see a scar like that you better think twice before trying your luck on me.

            This whole damn situation got me riled up.  Like there's an itch somewhere inside me I just can't fucking scratch.  The more I try and wrap my head around the more it itches.  The damn thing just don't make no type of sense.  But they were connected, no doubt in my mind.  Only person knew I was planning that job was my girl, also the only person really could get into the house like that.  That girl was dumber than dirt though, and she loved me, at least she said she did.  Never said it back though, just wasn't like me.  The one thing I'd bet money on was that she wouldn't fucking hurt me.  Not for nothing.

            Times like these make me wish I still had the habit.  A little juice just might clear my head.  But I kicked that shit, just couldn't afford it no more.  When you're high you make mistakes.  Mistakes get you killed.  Either way, no difference, I wouldn't even know where to get the stuff anymore anyways.  A good walk get rid of the itch better than jamming a needle in my arm anyways.  So I fucking walk.      

            And there's my fucking beat up old pick up.  Two blocks away.  Taking up two spots in the Motel 8 parking lot, not that they care much, the whole place is empty.  The lobby's got some little Asian type sitting at the front desk watching something I can't understand TV.  Only one light on in the whole place, and only one car in the lot, one more than I'd ever seen at the damn place before.  I'd never pegged her as a cheater, slut maybe, but not a cheater.  I guess I just thought too highly of myself.  The fucking bitch.  She probably sold pawned the damn pendant I bought her, spent the cash on this fucking hotel room.  God knows she couldn't afford the thirty five bucks for the night.  Or maybe she just weaseled her new man into paying for it.  The bitch could really sweet talk. 

            So I walk up to the loser behind the desk.  "You seen a whorish looking girl round here tonight?"  I ask him.  He just shrugs his shoulders at me.  "I asked you a fucking question.  Don't you fucking speak English," I say.  I lean in close this time, close enough to let him get a damn good look at my scar.  This time he drags his eyes off the TV, faces me and shrugs his shoulders.  His hair is locked in my fist.  I slam his face down, hard.  A little harder than I wanted to, and right smack dab on the little bell glued to the counter.  I feel the front of his face shatter.  His nose pushed back behind his eyes.  Serves him right.  I know before I even let go, no use calling an ambulance.

            I wasn't no murderer, but some shit-heads just have it coming.  I didn't put that bell there, I was just shaking him up a bit.  Save us both the small talk, kid probably wanted to juice a few bucks out of me, should have known better.  There'll be a new one in there by tomorrow.  Like smashing ants with that kind.  Won't nobody ask questions tomorrow.  No security footage, not a damn soul out tonight, just another nobody dead.

               So I walk upstairs.  Only one apartment lit up, only one I've ever seen lit up.  The damn motel was a drug front, even the police knew it.  They got their cut, didn't care about much else.  The damn place was dirty as hell, I mean why bother if everyone knows better than to fucking stay there.  But there it was, that one fucking room lit up like a god damn Christmas tree.  The door's not even closed all the way, and I can hear her.  The fucking tramp.  I push open the door, nearly knock the damn thing off its hinges.  Both of them, sprawled out on the bed.  Fucking.  I was never the jealous type, but FUCK THAT SHIT.  I grab her by that pendant and rip her off the bed.  She's standing on her tippy toes, gasping, but I don't care.  I look at the limp dick pathetic fucking excuse for a man staring at me.  "Get the fuck out, before I kill your ass too," I tell him.  The sack of shit doesn't even grab his clothes, just sprints out buck naked.  Fucking pussy. 

            She's turning blue now, and that pendant ain't fucking breaking.  Worth every penny.  Some cheaper shit and she'd be laying down on the fucking ground by now, but not this shit.  I give her one more minute before she goes limp.  She's stopped kicking now, so I throw her ass down.  She's dead, no use checking.  I grab the keys up off the night-stand and walk out the door.  The truck's down there, taking up two god damn spots.  I open the door and hop in the front seat.  One hell of a fucking night.  Five more minutes and I'm on the highway, if I'm lucky, maybe I catch the end of the game.  And if I don't, I still got that .22.