It felt good

As I sped along the highway in the rented car, I felt the pressure of the Ruger 9mm pushing into my left side. Holstered for a cross-hand draw, it’s reassuring presence was insinuated into my ribs. The road came at me in the glare of my headlights cutting through the deepening darkness of the setting sun. The dashed lines blurred as I raced along the black ribbon of road.

I didn’t have a plan. I had an idea of a plan, however. He was going to regret laying a hand on her again after he’d been warned twice already. The three strike policy had been invoked, and he was about to be ejected from the game. I gripped the wheel with both hands, knuckles pained and straining. The sound of her crying still in my ears was the soundtrack of the road as I made my way to his house.

I pulled up in front and saw he was standing on the porch, beer in hand. I put my car in park and thought hard about my purpose there. I heard him yelling crudeness from his porch. I opened the door so I could hear him better. His violence filled me. I thought of her, her cries, her pleas to not do the very thing I am doing.

I’m sorry, baby. I’m going to have to not listen to you this time. This time he went too far.

He was still yelling as I got out of my car and walked around it into his front yard. All 250 square feet of it. A tiny home for a tiny man. I walked to a point directly in front of him and stood quietly with my arms at my side. He drunkenly threw a half-filled beer bottle at me but missed by a mile. He pointed and swore, sputtered and coughed. He impotently threatened me, the coward that he was, from the cover of his porch.

I took stock of the man before me. I never understood her attraction for him, then again, I never understood what she saw in me, either. But I never abused her. If anything, I loved her too well. I made it impossible for her to live up to the ideal I had set. I don’t blame her for anything. Except for finding herself in this a-hole’s arms.

He finally shut the hell up when I drew my gun out and dropped my arm to my side with it. My thumb clicked the safety off, my index finger lay along the slide above the trigger guard. Now, there was only the sound of the distant traffic, insects, and the occasional barking dog. He looked confused. I stood there, gun at my side, not speaking or moving. He raised his arms and began to speak but I raised my arm to cut him off by sliding the barrel back, then aimed at him.

The black barrel of the Ruger pointed directly at his head, he drew in a gasp right before he pissed himself. I let him finish pissing, then swung my arm 45 degrees to my right and emptied my clip into his classic Corvette. He screamed as I took out the windows and the tires on the side facing me, then put a couple in the body for good measure. He stepped off the porch and started to come at me but jerked to a halt when he saw me eject the expended clip and retrieve a fresh one from my belt, slamming it home and sliding the barrel once again.

I pointed the barrel at his slack jaw.

“What’s my name?”

He looked at me very confused and stammered out a “Whu-what?” as I stepped toward him.

“I said…what the hell is my name?”

He looked around then back at me.

“I don’t have a damn clue!”

I clicked the safety back in position and holstered my weapon. Walking away, I said quietly, “Exactly.”

As I drove away, I felt the warmth of the gun against my side. It felt good.

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