Photo of the pool back in my hometown. Taken in December.

Photo of the pool back in my hometown. Taken in December.

Having a bummer day. Wishing I was chilling at home with this cold-hearted killer.

Having a bummer day. Wishing I was chilling at home with this cold-hearted killer.

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"That which exists without my knowledge exists without my consent."


“You think when you wake up in the mornin yesterday don’t count. But yesterday is all that does count. What else is there? Your life is made out of the days it’s made out of. Nothin else.”

-Cormac McCarthy

Just finished reading No Country for Old Men, My goal this summer is to finish his entire collection of written works.

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Just started playing this game last night and it’s ridiculously good so far. Makes me want to either be a detective so I can scour crime scenes for evidence, or be a serial killer so I can make the scene itself! Well, kind of.

Short Story

Definitely just figuring out how to use this tumblr thing. The following is a short story I turned in today for my creative fiction class. I wanted to post this here to get some feedback on the story. I had to do all manners of things that I did not want to do with this story such as speed up the second half of the story, and not develop some characters as far as I would have liked to. Ill have a first draft to be turned in on March 8th, so I would like to develop the story a little more by that time.

Lemme know what you think!

To Be A Ranger


                     To be a Ranger

I guess I had never known what it was like to be above everything. All of my life, I was constantly told that I have to listen to people. I was told I had to listen to the government. I had to pay taxes. I had to talk to Jesus. I had to get a job, raise money, and support a family. I was told that I have to act proper in public, and issue respect to those who deserve it. The day I joined the Rangers is the day I told the world to keep all of its bullshit. That day I took a creed, a creed that sustained my new way of life. That creed was, “When I do good, nobody will remember and when I do wrong, no one will forget.”

       * * *

My dad died when I was four years old. The respect that I was told I have to show people was a lesson that was taught to me while I was very young. “Always treat everyone with the respect that they deserve, lest you end up like your father.” My mother would always use this saying as a guilt trip, whenever I mouthed off to her, or tried to steal from somebody, or any bad behavior I engaged in. She meant to show me that if I didn’t have respect for my fellow man, they too would not respect me. What she didn’t realize was that respect goes out the window when you have a silver with gold trim, .45 caliber, Colt 1911 Government Issue semiautomatic pistol in someone’s mouth.

My dad did right by most everyone. He was recognized as good people by most of our family’s friends. He worked all day in the factory like every man in this city, and supported his family with a blue-collar attitude, and a hard-shelled heart. It was a shame I never got to know him, as I could barely shit in a bucket before he left this world.

I learned everything about my father from stories that my mother had told me as I was growing up. She talked of him like a hero. My old man kind of had a way with people. He could always spark a conversation. His only social problem was that most of these conversations were started while he was drunk. Piss drunk. Only way my father knew how to drink. He liked to get a rise out of people. He was a proper father and worker by day, but after the time clock had punched in his day, he took to the bars.

He loved to see people’s reactions.  Ask them their favorite sports team, and then tell them that the team sucks shit. Ask them who they voted for, and tell them they wasted a vote on a child molester. Just to get a reaction from them. He thought it was funny. Even after the first time someone threatened or decided to use violence against him instead of the usual shit-fit. He kept on telling people they bought shitty cars, wore shitty-clothes, and talked like they had shit in their mouth. He was a hypocrite, as it was the shit in his mouth that ended up being his end.

My father had never owned a motorcycle. He never owned anything but a beat up pickup truck. It fit his blue-collar attitude. My father had never been in a gang, or any group that wasn’t republican, Christian, or a union. On one December night, his tongue got the best of him.

He wasn’t concerned with such things as a “motorcycle club” or a “history of violence.” Never paid any attention to the “Fallen Saints.” His worldview would change, right before his life would. He would know who the Fallen Saints were. That would be the last name he heard before he hit the floor of the bar, dead as the last nail put in his coffin.

The Fallen Saints were a small-time motorcycle club. A 1% patch on their jackets meant that they were outlaws. Unlike the 99% of bikers the American Motorcyclists Association say are law-abiding citizens, the “one-percenters” are the only thing close to outlaws we have seen since the Wild West criminals that John Wayne fought in all those movies. These were hard individuals. Their black, leather jackets had a skeleton crouched down, ready to pounce on the next thing that angered it. This skeleton had an old surplus green army helmet on top of its head, with the letters FA printed on the front in a faded red wash. On the skeleton’s back were two torn up, tattered, and bloodied angel’s wings. The skeleton had a clenched fist on his right hand, and a middle finger pointed to the sky on his left. On the top of the skeleton patch were the words “Fallen Saints,” on the bottom of the jacket was the name of this city, “Detroit.”  Right below the skeleton patch itself was another patch that just had the two letters on it, “MC.”

My father had come home from work that night like any other. My mother was watching me play with matchbox cars on the floor of the kitchen while he walked through the door. They greeted each other as usual, a kiss on the cheek, a long, gripping hug. I would smile my little shit-brain four-year-old smile; delighted that another human whom I was familiar with had entered the room. That shit-brain of mine doesn’t remember what was said between them, but my mother tells me it was the same as any night. That he was going to go have a drink at the bar, and that he loved her.

He left for the bar that night, and it would be the last time I would ever see him again. This was the night that he died. The next person that would walk through that door would be the policemen that had come to tell my mom that my fathers head had been blown apart by a black, .44 caliber magnum, made by Smith & Wesson. My shit-brain was perplexed at this new man entering the house, and even more perplexed when my mother fell to the ground in the fetal position, the way I slept at night. My mother wasn’t sleeping though, as she lay on the kitchen floor at the feet of the police officer she was convulsing and screaming. I started crying too, not because most of my fathers head was being cleaned off a bar floor at the time, but because my mother was crying. As a baby boy, the most frightening thing in the world is that which frightens your birth mother. It shakes the very foundation of trust you have in your body. As clear as it happened then, I will always remember her lying on the ground, coiled like a rattler, shivering like a frost bite victim, cursing the world and god for shattering her life that one night in December.

The funeral was held a couple of days after, and I did not remember close to anything from it, other than people crying and saying things to me with words I didn’t understand. Things like, “You’ll do your father right” and “The world still has one great Bonner man left.”

A kid growing up in Detroit with no father is at a disadvantage. A kid gleans a social skill from his father very young, to stand up for himself in the face of adversity. This was a skill that my mother simply could not teach me growing up. I either had to learn it from my dead father, or evolve on my own facing this adversity. This evolution would be a tough one. Billy Putner beat my ass when I wouldn’t give him my favorite action figure. Alex Clancy beat my ass when I kicked a soccer ball past him and scored a goal. John Drewmoore beat my ass when I looked at his girlfriend. My mother simply could not teach me how to beat their ass. I had to learn.

I remember the day that my mother’s axiom would not help me. That day treating everyone with respect, lest I end up like my father came to me in a new light. As Jessie Hocker told me that I was a shit head and that he was going to beat the fuck out of me, I had one of those child-like epiphanies. The ones that completely change the world as you know it up to that point. My mother’s axiom was false. It was broken, actually; I realized on this day that I should always treat people with the respect that they deserve, however, Jessie Hocker was a bastard, son-of-a-bitch, lying, cheating, red-headed, dingle berry of an asshole, and I was going to treat him as such.

The adrenaline kick that coursed through my veins, and fueled my actions left my memory of the event quite cloudy, but I remember snapping. I snapped completely. I recognized that my mother’s saying could be spun, and I used it to completely beat the fuck out of Jessie Hocker. With both of my knees dug completely into the fleshy socket between his shoulder and his collarbone, I sat punching the sides of his face with such force that my knuckles fractured. The sheer pain and adrenaline kept my mangled fists flying into his cheekbones until I felt them crumple like the Lego blocks I used to play with as a kid.

My life changed on that day. As Jessie Hocker lay on the ground, screaming and crying, and choking on teeth, I looked down at him. I was above him. I was above the torment that I had to go through in my adolescence. Constantly picked on by other kids because I could not defend myself. I snapped that day. As he spat out stream of blood after stream of blood, and as teachers and security guards came chasing after me, I finally had come to the moment that would define the life in my years, the moment I evolved.

I spent eighteen months in juvenile detention. Eighteen hard months. It wasn’t prison, but to a seventeen-year-old kid with a lower middle class upbringing and no history of mischief it was a nightmare.  Part of my evolution was I realizing when I can and can’t apply my spin on my mom’s axiom. In juvenile, I had to respect every one else there. I was a new-found hard ass, and I learned immediately that my implosive ways should not be used in lock-up. Nearly everyone in lock up had heard how Jessie Hocker had to have two major surgeries just to be able to restore his jaw into a functioning state. I would get some head nods from the kids that had been to this place multiple times, and I acted like I was a seasoned veteran. Cold stares were not only a product of my new attitude, but also of the life I had just let go of. My mother said she didn’t know me anymore, told me how my dead father would feel, said the words no child likes to hear; she was disappointed in me. She had no remorse when I was sent off to juvi’. She said I would learn a valuable lesson. She didn’t realize that me going to juvi’ and the actions that caused it, was the lesson my father never taught me.

I was 18 when I finally left juvenile detention. My celebration into finally becoming a man consisted of me waking up, reading “1984” by George Orwell, shitting a couple of times, and sleeping in my bunk. I never kept track of time while locked up, so I had no idea it was even my birthday. After I left juvenile, my mother picked me up and gave me a long speech that I hardly want to recall. She talked about how I am perceived in society and rattled off some more of her axioms, ending with the favorite, about how I should treat everyone with the respect that they deserve, lest I end up like my father. I should have brought up my kairotic moment when I realized Jessie Hocker deserved the respect I gave him, and argued that I was following her statement truthfully, but I didn’t want to put this woman through any more pain. My actions casted down on her, and her character in society changed on that day I beat up Jessie Hocker. She went from an embattled widow, to a mother who can’t control her sociopathic, fatherless child. It was then when I realized I had to leave home, and separate myself from the only family I had ever known.

I had to leave the only home I knew. I had to separate myself from my mother not just because I was eighteen, but because I couldn’t handle breaking her down even further. I didn’t leave Detroit, but my mother never knew that. I told her that this was the best for me, and that I needed a change of scenery. I told her that I was going to go to a trade school and one day, I would buy her a house when I returned. “I’ll make it up to you” I told her. She couldn’t understand why I wanted to leave so badly, and she was scared that she couldn’t stop me from making this decision. She had hardly seen me since that day I almost killed Jessie Hocker. All the while I was locked up, I knew that I couldn’t stick around her, I knew that I was going to become something that she didn’t want, and I didn’t want to break what little pieces of her heart were left.

I moved to Highland Park Detroit, far away enough from my mother that she wouldn’t hear about me, and close enough that I could still be within reach. Highland Park is the heavy crime area of Detroit, and my mother would be nowhere near this area. I sold off all of my childhood belongings that had any value, and the action figures alone netted me enough to have a studio apartment around the “ghetto.” I moved in and began the search for the next chapter in the life of the last great Bonner man.

      ***

Searching for a job in Detroit is like searching for gold in port-a-potty. I spent weeks looking for a place of employment only to have my background checks and references cancel me out, and the only thing left was cooking jobs that I was not satisfied with. It was on a bitterly cold night that I met Max Kyler. The kind of night only found in Detroit, where light snowfall covered your tracks everywhere you went, as long as you didn’t drop from hypothermia.

I ordered a double whiskey from the bartender as I slid up into my stool. I watched the television screen while the man was reaching into the ice bucket for my brews, and they were interviewing Barry Sanders. He talked about just winning the next game, and how the grace of god kept him running. I definitely didn’t have any help from deities, but I was ready for my next game. As the barkeep handed me my glass and I slipped him a five, a man sat next to me.

This man was a hulk of a creature. He was about 6’3” with 235 lbs draped around him. He wore a black bandana, with a beard that would make a Viking blush. His eyes were so far recessed into his skull; he hardly looked like he had any. My heart skipped a beat as I looked past his hidden neck to see a midnight black leather jacket with patches I could not make out covering his upper torso. Not since before I beat up Jessie Hocker had I actually felt fear in the presence of another man.

For ten long minutes I sat at this bar staring at the television, wondering if fate had brought me into this bar, in the same city that my father died, and sat me right down next to the man that killed him. Ten long minutes I felt anxiety completely take hold, and right before I was about to head to the bathroom to gather my thoughts, we both took a sip from our glasses, and simultaneously locked eyes.

“That Barry Sanders can run like a motherfucker!” he said with a smile, and a slap on my back that shook every foundation I was built upon. “Yeah he seems to be having a good season.” I said back, even though I had never watched a full Lions game. “So what’s your story, friend?” He asked me. His eyebrows descended on his face, hiding his eyes to the point I felt I was looking at a human skull with a nice jacket.

I told him that I had moved recently to find work, and needed a warm drink on this cold night. He replied telling me that alcohol warms everything, the spirit, the mind, the body, and most importantly he pointed out, the dick. With a laugh he said “My name is Max Kyler, but my friends call me Attitude.” I told him my name, and immediately asked him why he has the nickname attitude, fearing that if I didn’t watch my step, the old like father, like son, adage would prove true. “Cause I give everyone the maximum amount of attitude I can! Max Attitude!” he replied.

He asked me what I wanted to do for work, and I told him I was thinking about getting a job to save up money for a trade school. “I respect that” he said, “You ever work on motorcycles?” I told him I had never even touched one, then lied that I had always been fascinated with them. “Well if your looking for work, I own a shop in the neighborhood that can always use some help. We could use a ‘hang-around’ like you.”

Before I said anything, I knew I had to know a piece of information. I had to see the back of this man’s jacket. A man in a motorcycle club killed my father. That man belonged to the Fallen Saints. I had heard the name once when I was young, but couldn’t recall it. My mother could never tell me the full story of what happened without bursting into tears and sinking into a five hour long depression. She gave me fragments that I had to piece together.

My father went to that bar that night to ease out of a hard day of work. He had been trying to get a rise out of people, and happened across the wrong man. He decided to make fun of the skeleton on the back of a patron’s jacket. He said it looked like Walter Mondale. He poked it with a pool cue. The man got up from the bar, and said some very choice things to my father. Things about wearing colors, and that my father shouldn’t concern himself in such things as falling angels. The man shoved my father. My father broke a pool cue over his head.

The man got up from the blow of the pool cue as my father was grabbing an empty beer bottle. As my father broke the bottle on the table nearest him, the man reached into his jacket. Though I was never at the scene, I can picture it in my head as if it were an oil painting in my high schools library. My father grabs the broken bottle and lunges toward the man just as he brandishes his gun, and they meet face to face. My father and his overalls, a wrinkled yell coming from bared teeth holds the broken bottle up to the mans throat mere millimeters away from slicing his jugular. The man in the jacket pulls the gun from his shoulder holster in an arch that ends with the barrel of the revolver pointing straight above my fathers left eye. A moment frozen in time that is painted in the deepest vaults of my memories, a line of tanks, in front of one singular man, this is an image that is with me until the day that my brain shuts down. The man in the black leather jacket pulls the trigger. My father is cut down in the middle of a coliseum of drunkards. This man was a Fallen Saint, and he killed one of the last of two Bonner men.

I turned to Max Kyler and asked him what kind of shop it was. “We mostly work on Harleys, but we can work on old Indians. Anyone brings in an import to get worked on and we beat the fuck out of them!” He exclaimed with a hearty laugh. As he bent over to catch the laugh in his stomach and hold it there I had my opportunity to look at his jacket.

There was a red devil looking creature, with a sneer that sent chills down my spine. In it’s mouth was a comically large cigar with it’s cherry burning dark red. The demon had a grenade belt slung across each shoulder, and a belt that housed high caliber bullets all round the demons waist. The demon had eyes as black as the jacket the man wore, and a black bandana that matched its wearer. Around both sides of the demon creature was two mushroom clouds, creating desolation in the demons background. On the bottom of the creature was a separate patch that said: Detroit, and on the top of the creature was a patch that read: Rangers.

“And what kind of a shop does a Ranger run?” I asked on the fly. “Oh! You’ve heard of the Rangers? What kind of things have you heard?” I was on the spot. Right here, is my “getting a rise” moment. Rather than drunkenly antagonizing him, I come up with a plan. This is one of those plans that was set in the deepest vault in your memory bank, the kind that was always meant for you to discover, but you can’t find it until an opportunity arises. This was another kairotic moment. A moment of opportunity that I had to seize.

“Oh, I’ve heard the Rangers are some hard folk, that certainly command respect!” “Phew! I thought you were going to tell me you saw us in that parade last year! The one where we rode behind the Shriners! Gotta keep up a good image with the public!” Max Attitude had no idea that I had never heard of the “Rangers.” I told him that I might want to seek out his employment opportunity and become one of these “Hang-arounds.” He was delighted to have my interest.

The next few months I became acquainted with this shop and the Rangers. The shop was called Armageddon Alley. The “Rangers” actually stood for “Rangers of Armageddon.” The club was started by Max “Attitude” Kyler and Lance “Holey” Christian, who were both retired Army Rangers that had fought in Vietnam. They didn’t tell me much at first, just let me run odd jobs for them, and clean up the shop. I was paid at the end of every week with an envelope they gave me as I left the shop. The envelope usually contained around five hundred dollars worth of assorted tens, twenties, and fives. I never once asked for compensation, or where the money came from, as they maybe worked on five bikes a week.

About a month into the project, Lance “Holey” Christian approached me while I was wiping down the exhaust pipes of a 1994 Harley Davidson Road King. “So, you like it here?” Lance asked me. I told him it was good work, and that I appreciated the opportunity. I also got to learn how to ride a bike, “Well us here at the shop like your company, but why didn’t you tell us about that kid you killed in school?” I tensed up and told him that I hadn’t found an opportunity to speak of such things and that I didn’t kill him, just broke his jaw. “ Not what I heard. I heard you decapitated him from punching him so hard.” I laughed off his statement and said he heard wrong. He didn’t laugh. “Violence is not always a bad thing. Violence has been around since the beginning of man. Know why that is? Because there always has to be a winner. Sometimes the winner can win a race; sometimes he can get an “A” on his test. Sometimes he can gun down an entire group of people coming out of an underground tunnel on a foreign continent just so Uncle Sam will pump his dick and cash a check. The history of man is passed along by a history of winners. And those winners became winners because they were better at being violent.”

I sat and stared at Lance with a sense of cowardice I had not felt since my mother picked me up from lock up. “Hell, know how I got the name ‘Holey’? It isn’t because I preach every Sunday that’s for sure, its because when people cross me, I leave them Hole-y. Son, what happened to your father?”

I tensed up even more. I told him he was killed in a fight with a man at a bar. “Bull fucking shit. Your father was murdered by Casey Park of the Fallen Saints. Murdered. Doesn’t matter if Casey was found not guilty because it was “in self defense” he had his brains lacquered all across that bars floor because of Casey Park of the fucking Fallen Saints.”

I had not heard this name since I was six years old. I had forgotten the name altogether until Lance said it. A wave of a burning sensation filled up my chest, rising from my stomach, and I felt the pressure on my brain intensify as I stood up and told Lance:

“What can I do about it.”

From that night on, I was a member of the Rangers of Armageddon. Not a full member right away, I spent the next month as an “Associate” and trafficked kilos of cocaine for the club. I got my black jacket as a “Prospect” the month after that, as my pay grade went up to a thousand dollars a week, still paid in tens, twenties, and fives. I wore the blank jacket the first night I had to use violence on a job. I had to deliver 2 keys of rock to a group that called themselves the “Wild Deuces.” The whole job stank from the start, and upon receiving the money and distributing the drugs, guns were pulled on Max and I. The deal took place in a dark warehouse, and our only escape was a fire exit on the north wall. Four cronies reached their hands into their jackets as we set the brief case down on the dusty warehouse floor. Max immediately grabbed the case and we bolted. We ran for the exit under a hail of bullets from shitty ass black 9mm Beretta M9 handguns, and as we used the shadows to race to our escape, Max threw me his sidearm, a silver with gold trim, .45 caliber, Colt 1911 Government Issue semiautomatic pistol. I quickly feathered my finger around the trigger, turned around, and shot all four guys chasing after me. Seven bullets, four bodies. As good a ratio as any, Max would later tell me.

The thing about murder is that you only think about it when your mind sits idle. Which is 96% of one’s day. I remembered every expression on their faces as the previously unarmed man turns around and belts out hellfire from his hands, their eyes rolling to the back of their skulls as the bullets penetrate soft flesh, then on to hard bone, then back to flesh. The moral questions I had about my actions had to be a part of my plan. Even though I had not expected to have to kill another human being, my ultimate goal had to be met without any distractions.

It was after that night that I went “Full-Patch.” Full-member of the Rangers of Armageddon. I got my demon they nicknamed “Luke”, my Rangers and Detroit patches, and the last patch sown on was a little “MC” right underneath the demon graphic. I had a 1% patch on the front and a head full of variables and equations for my plan.

I did not have to wait long for my next development, as the plan would escalate quickly. A few months after the shootout with the Wild Deuces, another MC had taken away our leader. Max “Attitude” Kyler was dead. It was a hit and run, with the hit being a point blank shot to the back of the neck from a Fallen Saint assassin, who pulled up behind Max one night while he was driving home, and shoved his pistol underneath Max’s helmet. Murdered in cold blood. The Ranger’s lead a procession at the funeral, and in his notebook that he kept in his toolbox at the shop we found a DIY last will and testament that responsible members of the group leave. This document left Lance with Max’s bike and a stake in all his property, except for one piece. His gun. The silver with gold trim, .45 caliber, Colt 1911 Government Issue semiautomatic pistol was given to me by Max. He left a note in the will that said I was the only other person that had ever laid a finger on the pistol, and that I had saved his life.

My plan did not include Max getting murdered. It was an event I sit here and still harbor ill feelings about. This event turned my plan into action. One week after Max’s funeral, Lance and I were cleaning up the shop when he turned to me and said, “You know, Casey Park is still with the Fallen Saints. The Fallen Saints just took the only fucking brother I have ever had. They took the only fucking father you’ve ever had.” I stopped dead in my tracks. This is the third moment in my life where time slowed down, and I sat there with a decision to make, another one that would lead me on a different path then I had been taking. Another kairotic moment, another time to seize an opportunity.

“It’s time to kill Casey Park, and every single Fallen Angel that gets in our way.”

Lance rounded up the war party, and I grabbed the guns and gear. We rolled out around eleven o’ clock p.m. that same night, and headed for downtown Detroit, territory of the Fallen Angels.

“Shoot every motherfucker that is wearing that stupid ass skeleton on their backs” Lance shouted as we enter downtown. Before long people were looking at us at traffic light stops. People on the street were pointing at us as we rode by. Part of me felt a bit of pride pulling in my chest as I thought of Max, and the pistol that sat next to my breast pocket of my jacket. I thought of my father in the painting, inches away from spilling the blood of the Casey Park and Jessie Hocker laying in a puddle of his own blood with the bottom half of his mouth touching the pre-pubescent bump of his soon-to-be Adams apple. I felt rage like I had never felt before. Casey Park, my mind would say to me like a broken record as I rode into the city.

The next light we stopped at, we saw one. He immediately flipped a bitch and shot away so fast he almost lost control, a Fallen Saint in the flesh. We gave chase and trailed him back to his hideout, a hundred meter follow, as Lance directed. We parked our bikes outside of the blank generic buildings that we presumed were the headquarters of the Fallen Saints.

 “Tonight, we are winners. We are martyrs.

We are most certainly sinners, but a special kind of god, has a special place for us. Tonight we pray to the god of violence, and hope that he fills our cup, with the blood of our enemies. Rangers, move in!”

That adrenaline kicks in, and my memory clouds up, we busted in through the front door to an expecting reservation, a party of seven that was no match for our group of fifteen. I pulled out Max’s pistol, that silver with gold trim, .45 caliber, Colt 1911 Government Issue semiautomatic pistol that I came to wield that night like it was an extension of my darkest fantasy. I shot four out of the seven and as I approached the last man standing, I pulled the clip.

I walked up to him, teeth bared, and said,

“With your last breath, you will tell me where Casey Park is.”

The young kid, barely even twenty, looked up at me and spat a stream of blood on my leather jacket. I simply repeated my previous statement to him, and as I was speaking it, Lance brandished an axe handle, and beat the kid’s forehead in.

With his last dilated breath, the kid told us he lived the next building over.

I walked. I didn’t run. I walked cautiously. This was the plan in motion. My chance to finally evolve into what I was meant to do the day my father died. My time to kill Casey Park, and have revenge for the father I never knew.

I walked up the stairs to the exposed apartment door. I looked at the doorknocker, focused on it and the rounding design of the crest above the swinging handle. I took a deep breath and prepared myself for the other world beyond the door. I knew that after the mess we left at the head quarters this night of mischief would not go quietly and low key. I was ready to accept the next course of action. All other variables that I took into consideration that lead me here no longer apply. The next variables involved were all the unpredictable ones. I checked the doorknob and grinned, the pins were lying flat in the cylinder of the lock. I let out that deep breath, relaxed and opened the door.

We walked in with our guns drawn and faces oscillating as we scanned the dark entryway. After all we had gone through that night up to that point it would have seemed that locating this man was going to be the sketchiest task, but Casey Park was an easy man to find. He was hiding in a closet in his two-bedroom apartment, and we could hear his heavy breathing from behind the door when we entered.

“Casey Park. Seventeen years ago you cut down a poor drunken man at a bar. That man was my father, Kurt Bonner. You murdered him in cold blood in public. I never saw my fathers face after that night because you left me no face to remember. I never had someone to show me how to stick up for myself, I never had a father to teach me right from wrong, and it is because of you! Now, I’m sticking up for myself, and for my father, it may be wrong, but in my head it’s the only right thing to do, show yourself!”

Casey Park opened the door to the closet, and sat on his knees. He looked me in the eyes with tears that I couldn’t understand. Were these tears of fear from what will happen next, or tears because he genuinely felt bad for killing my father? I’ll never know.

I brandished the 1911, stuck it to Casey’s temple right above his left eye, and pulled the trigger.

                                                         ***

I think of my mother every day. She has not once come to visit me. The police notified me that she was still alive. That she was happy I was still alive, but I had not seen her.

I sit here in my cell; writing down everything that has happened that put me right where I sit. Every event that eventually leads to this day. My plan. The revenge I never thought I could have. I thought I was spoiled.

 My sentencing day. Nine counts of murder, twelve accounts of drug trafficking, and a whole slew of charges I didn’t even know the law system could enact. Life in prison is probably an after thought; I’m headed straight for the chair. The Judge would only be so kind to let me live another year. After all the changes in my life, I never expected today to be the biggest one. The one that completely null and voids the last ten years of my life.  A singular letter from my mother, written three weeks ago, yet delivered today. I said goodbye to my mother years ago with the intention of someday bringing her back into my life. That day will never happen.

“Casey Park came to my house once a week after he left prison. He gave me two hundred dollars a week and enough to feed a family. More than what my job was paying and more than I could afford. He said he would never forgive himself for killing an innocent man. He said he had a bad day, and your father was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. He asked for forgiveness and I gave it to him. He never promised me a house, but Casey Park was a good man. I could never tell you because I was scared of what you might do.”

I am writing this as an account. Writing out my entire plan, to stand above the entire map. Looking at the entire deck of cards to see which ones didn’t make it into the hand I was dealt. Those people at the funeral were wrong. Dead wrong. The world did not have any great Bonner men left. The last one was my father.