Please note: this content has adult language and some violent themes.
By Leonard Pigg III
Wanted for crimes against humanity in his own mind, he walks the streets endlessly. He has already been tried and convicted. His soul got the death penalty and yet he still wanders the world. Guilt is his appetizer and rage is his main course. Down the garbage-littered street he walks, his hatred blinding him to the overwhelming stench of human waste. In this shitty urban wasteland he is the lone gunslinger. He walks past junkie and dealer alike, knowing that among the bad men, he is the worst. Peddlers sell their wares on the same sidewalk next to whores who sell their bodies. The doldrums of the street make him sick to his stomach.
Fucking cattle. They’re all wandering around like zombies. Aimlessly awaiting their fate. I wish I had a fucking grenade.
His soul is truly in the gutter as his lust for trouble has brought him here. For years he has hated the neighborhood he lives in. He hates the reflection that looks back at him in the mirror daily, despising his seemingly generic features. There is nothing about him that stands out, that makes him look unique, he thinks. He hates whoever gets voted into power, regardless of party affiliation. His parents gained his hatred as a child amid liquor-filled whipping sessions. He hates television, but finds himself watching it every night in his hovel of an apartment. Women have come and gone from his life, never giving him what he really needs. They use him to help pay their bills or for his shoulder to cry on. Engorged with an ungodly rage, he stomps down the street full of self-righteousness.
Today is the day. This is my moment to shine among the shit.
In his mind, he is right and that is all that really matters to him. He is eager to establish eye contact with anyone bold enough to catch his gaze. Those who do see his bloodshot eyes turn away quickly as they are burned with a glare of true hatred, a hatred of self and the world around him. A light coating of sweat permeates his clothes, mixed with the stench of cheap booze. With both hands in the pockets of his coat, he fumbles with the snub-nosed pistols in each. Tired of being a nobody in a neighborhood full of nobodies, he wants to be somebody. He travels by foot to the worst section of town, under the pretense of exercise. Thugs stand in groups of five, glaring at him as he walks by. They talk amongst themselves in a language he doesn’t care to learn. He is an American and it angers him that he’s being insulted by these invaders in their barbaric tongue.
Fuck with me, man! C’mon! I goddamned dare you to fuck with me today! I got money in my pocket and I dare you to try and take it from me. This land is my land, not yours!
The thugs look on nervously as they see the rage of a desperate man. Not one of them steps forward because they understand the international language of hate. Nobody else responds to him, too busy caught up in the misery of their own lives. He gets angrier when he realizes that he’s being ignored. To be ignored by mainstream society is typical. To be ignored by a supreme being he’s never seen or called to except in anger is another thing altogether. He brandishes his pistols on the street and points them toward the sky. Rushing out into the middle of the street, he laughs maniacally as he fires into the air.
Yes! That’s it! Bow before the only god you’re ever going to see, motherfuckers! This is my world and there ain’t a thing you can do about it!
He swells with delight as all the people on the street duck for cover or lay on the ground. The gunslinger feels true pleasure and finally sees a sacrifice suitable for a god. He takes aim at the thick-legged woman standing on the corner. As the bullets rip through her spandex clad body, she barely has time to let out a gasp. Her wig flies off as the force of the attack flings her back against the light pole behind her. Her last thoughts are in her language. It’s a prayer, one which goes unanswered as she draws her last breath. People flee as the man laughs and continues to fire his guns. Police and ambulance sirens blare in the distance minutes later. By the time the police arrive on the scene, he is long gone. The hooker is stone dead. The streets are filled with terror, knowing another gun-toting maniac is on the loose. The Generic Man gets away again, because nobody remembered what he looked like.
“You don’t know me. It would hurt too much if you did. I’ll be seeing you if you’re unlucky.” –The Generic Man