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By the third liquid libation, I was usually a cranky son of a bitch. This time, I couldn’t take my eyes off the fuckhead as he laughed and joked about what he could and would do with the pretty yet innocent girl.
“I’m going to rip off those clothes of yours, fucking you like the tramp you are.”
His voice carried and the weak shitheads inside the bar were doing nothing to protect the innocent victim. No woman deserved to be called a tramp. Ever.
It burned me to the point I was seeing blood.
I hadn’t realized how much so until I heard a crack, realizing I’d broken the dense crystal glass in my hand.
“Oh, my God. Are you okay?” the equally as pretty bartender asked. She’d had her hands full as well, the beads of sweat rolling down both sides of her face a clear indication of just how much stress she was under.
I shifted my attention toward her, trying to offer a nonchalant smile. “I’m fine. Sometimes I don’t know my own strength.”
“I guess not. Jesus. Let me grab you a towel. I can’t have you suing the place, or my boss will be pissed.”
The worthless boss who rarely slithered out of his office.
As I stared down at my hand, I took a series of ragged breaths. There was no pain. I was immune to any level of agony given everything I’d been through in my youth. Scars covered a portion of my body, a reminder of the brutality I was spawned from. Maybe that’s why I had a taste for blood.
I returned my attention to the jerk. I’d memorized everything about him, including his gestures and nervous tics. He looked familiar. Usually those with the worst behavior had influential parents. It was like that alone gave them permission for their bad behavior. The fucker had a date with the Angel of Death.
I thoroughly enjoyed being judge and jury.
And executioner.
I smirked as I thought about the ridiculous moniker given to the man responsible for a half dozen murders in and around Chicago over the last two years. Me. The women he’d saved had called him an angel for protecting them while killing those abusing them. The stupid reporters had taken it from there.
“Here you go. I do have a first aid kit if you think you need it.” She tried to take my hand to doctor it, but I fisted my fingers, enjoying the hint of pain. The feelings kept me very much alive, electrified in the only way that would ease the demons.
“Don’t worry. I’ve experienced much worse. Thank you for the towel.”
“Would you like another drink? On the house.”
“Not necessary. Just some water.”
The last thing I wanted was to be remotely intoxicated when I performed my act. I was precise in my methods, although tonight was about making an example instead of creating beautiful art as I usually did.
I’d wait until the perfect opportune time. After all, I was a very patient man. That had been beaten into me early on.
Chuckling, I grabbed a peanut, popping it open and tossing it into my mouth. Life was good.
Even if I was restless.
My patience paid off, although it took almost two additional hours.
Now, after one in the morning, as the last customers walked out, I paid my tab as well, leaving a hefty tip.
“Come on, baby. You know you want it.” the guy asked the waitress for the third time, fondling his junk before shoving her against the back wall while she was trying to clean off a table.
“Get off me,” she hissed, finally showing some chutzpa. Sadly, she had no idea what the punk was likely capable of.
When he tried to kiss her, she hauled off and knocked him halfway across the room and into one of the pool tables.
“You bitch!”
“Just get out,” she exclaimed to her credit.
“Fine, you little slut. I will be back. Watch your back.”
