The night the Rhymer went whack

3

Straffe’s hands were full; his forty five occupied the left and his sawed off the right.

With his bullet-proof vest hidden underneath his trench coat, he looked down with displeasure and opted to run back upstairs and change into his wingtips. I’m not letting the world change me, he thought, as he systematically slipped them on. Back downstairs, his timing was perfect as he was shocked to see a bus arriving at the corner. “Excellent,” he exclaimed. “I can save the soles.” A quick trot and he boarded, soon witnessing human zombies, misfits, and probable murderers and rapists, all intertwined with those unable to shield themselves from their fellow passengers with soundproofing and tint. They had to work and sacrifice and take chances in order to survive.

Straffe could see that most were armed as they held their protections right out in the open, guns, knives, hammers and axes, but some others had to fake it with their balled up fists planted under their coats. Any defense was better than no defense, even a false one, for to have nothing was a death sentence and easily sniffed out by those seeking chaos. And Straffe’s guard was on full alert as two miscreants boarded two stops later. They looked a mess with their hair matted like mangy dogs as their waft preceded their walk down the aisle. A mix of bad breath, unwashed armpits, unclean ass and dirty clothes.

Most of the passengers turned away, covering their noses, but not Straffe. That quick turn was all that was needed for a deadly strike, so he stared them down. They stared back. Both of them long and hard. They chose the seats right across from him and sat eye to eye, but when Straffe saw their gaze sneak a peek at his sawed-off, he internally smiled as the hooligans began a new search for another victim. And she was cowering in the corner trying to hide her fear, which made her terror more conspicuous.

Head down, a no-no, was a submission to whatever violence that may take place. Some people prayed, using their faith as their only weapon, and she was one of them. Sometimes it worked, appealing to someone’s good nature and turning around a lost soul, but most times it didn’t. So armed only with a bible and beliefs, she passively smiled at the two stragglers. They smiled back, mischievously though, and inched closer.

Her fate was secured with their desires misinterpreted, she welcomed them before opening her bible and reading a passage. “For God so love the world—” was as far as her light, innocently sweet voice carried. The pipe, sharpened for this very type of act, pierced her neck and emerged right through the base of her skull.

Chentz, that’s what his cheek tattoo called him, quickly slid underneath and began lapping up the dripping blood. She attempted to scream but only a gurgle escaped, then one long-lasting lick of the wound signaled to his partner to exact the final blow. A sharpened screwdriver right through her left eye, exiting the back of her skull. Then Chentz resumed tonguing off the exit wound with more vigor, licking, smiling, sucking and pulling back her hair to get at more blood. No one helped and barely watched and the routine-ness sickened Straffe.

Even the driver, glancing at the murder through his rearview mirror, feigned ignorance, disregarding the killing. He still made the next stop as passengers routinely walked on and off, disengaged from the awfulness dispensed from these hyenas watching over their kill. But Straffe had been sheltered these past fifteen years and hadn’t become immune to this disgrace. He slowly gripped his forty five and lightly placed his finger on the trigger. He looked up and down the aisle, still dismayed at all the disconnected caring. Then he gritted his teeth before settling his gaze on the blood splattered bible. A little had splashed on his wingtips, so he retrieved his handkerchief and wiped his shoes clean while more firmly gripping his gun.

He looked up and focused on Chentz, the tattoo, zooming in on the NTZ. He rose, aimed and shot. CHE was the last thing Straffe saw before he felt the pain and tumbled to the ground settling face to face with the dead damsel, three eyes unblinking, staring at each other. Death must be imminent, he reasoned, as pain escaped his merciless beating. Each blow shook his body as he continued the stare down with victim number one.

He wanted blue to be the last color he saw, the blue of the sky, the ocean or the world he once knew, so he searched down the aisle and found a pair of shoes that satisfied his wish. They were dirty, scuffed and ragged but the color was acceptable, so his eyes settled as he smirked with blood swishing between his teeth. Content, he closed his eyes.