INTERNET SPECIAL
By
JASON DANIEL COVEY
______________________________________________________
As rain fell about the car, wind driven sheets attacking from all directions, I began to discern a complex message; a
clear pattern in the rhythm of the falling rain. Though I realized that the repetitive message originated from the furthest
depths of my mind, I forced myself to ignore the content, to label it as nothing more than an associative condition in
concert with an external stimulus.
Unwanted, yet too powerful to hold at bay, I knew that the complex message was actually an argument – though I
chose not to examine it. If I examined what it was I might scare myself from what I felt compelled to do. Never before
had my emotions controlled my actions, but they were doing so now. I continued forth only allowing my logical mind to
arrive at the simple and obvious conclusion…
I must be crazy.
The position that I had been in prior, and still remained, was that of the untouchable. I knew that I should simply
walk away. After all, I truly had no vested interest in the outcome. I had nothing to gain by becoming deeply involved,
but I had much to lose. Upon further examination I concluded that this night’s events had simply been random
happenstance, nothing more. Unexpected and unexplainable, yet perfectly predictable, that is if you expect to
encounter the unexpected.
I knew that I should chalk this up to a fortunate escape from unforeseen circumstances and simply absolve myself
from the situation. That was, after all, the safest course of action. A correct judgment made by logic. However, sound
judgment notwithstanding, I continued to press on into unfolding events orchestrated by the bizarre.
Recalling the memory once again I decided that it was the eyes. With the silenced barrel of my gun firmly against
her skull I looked into her eyes and that is when everything changed. Piercing my soul, her gaze postponed her death
– a death that, before that moment, I was committed to bring forth.
I am a killer. I murder for money. And this night began like any other night when I am to apply the craft of my trade.
That is to say I was completely prepared to carry out my contracted obligation. Just after nightfall, I dressed in a dark
hooded sweatshirt, dark blue jeans, a black bomber jacket, a black American Choppers hat, and a broken-in pair of
black Vans. From a wooden box in the garage I retrieved a six-inch Cold Steel Tanto knife, a Beretta 9MM semi-
automatic handgun, a silencer for my firearm, and my tool bag. Equipped with all that I would need I walked out the
door.
In the red light’s glow I waited to continue, traffic filling in the lanes around me. It would seem that destiny was giving
me every chance to discontinue. It would also seem that fate had led me to another course of action.
Again, I was thrust back to the memory of her eyes. It struck me suddenly as the horn of the car behind me blared:
The pain she felt had been transferred to my mind by way of her piercing gaze. It was an immensely sad pain. Before
now I had not been able to articulate it. Now I was beginning to understand my unprecedented mercy. I decided, in
carefully examined and chosen words, that I did not kill her because I would have felt guilty.
I am sociopathic as a pre-1990 psychologist might say. Contemporaries of the field, however, would now label me
as “anti-social”. Whichever term one chooses the fact remains, I feel nothing when I kill. That does not mean that I do
not know right from wrong. That also does not mean that I do not have a conscience. I understand and fully
acknowledge the consequences for the decisions I make. And I do feel emotion as it pertains to my behavior. For
instance if I offend some one, especially some one I care about, I am wrought with guilt. However, as I discovered
almost two years ago, killing is a numb experience for me.
The first time I ever killed a man was brought on by a sense of righteous fury. A month removed from high school
graduation my friend James and I were skateboarding in the parking lot of a strip mall. About one o’clock in the
morning an idiot in a security guard uniform started bothering us and so we decided to leave. James crossed the
street and a drunk driver without his lights on ran him down. He was killed instantly.
The police came and arrested the driver of the Mercedes, though at that time it was little consolation to James’s
family or to me. The driver, who turned out to be a prominent lawyer, was released on bail less than 48 hours later. At
his trial a month later the lawyer filed a motion for a mistrial based on a lapse in the police department’s investigative
procedure related to the manner in which his blood alcohol level was determined. The lawyer successfully claimed that
he was not drunk; that hitting James was a result of James wearing dark clothes, thus being hard to see at night, and
running out into the middle of the street.
Not that I wish to aid lawyers in their mission to give themselves a bad reputation – they are quite astute in that
endeavor without my assistance – this was a case where a very bad man blatantly lied and benefited from that lie. I
myself saw this man slur and stumble the night he killed an innocent person. I myself then witnessed how this man lied
to absolve himself from responsibility. There was no justice in what had happened. It was that point, not that my best
friend had been murdered, which ignited a deep fury within me. And it was by that fury that I killed for the first time.
After very little research I discovered the location of the lawyer’s office. I studied his routine for nearly two weeks.
Every Monday and Thursday, early in the morning before sunrise, the lawyer would go for a jog along the bike trail
that ran next to the American River. As I hid in the thick foliage, dressed all in black, a Louisville Slugger at the ready, I
was interested in the remarkable calmness I felt. At the time I thought it was simply a peace brought about by knowing
that it was justice which was about to triumph. But as I repaid the lawyer for his actions, first by breaking his right knee
and then crushing his skull, I was intrigued at how I felt nothing for what I had done.
The rain had stopped falling, the water on the street spinning through the tire tread. Suddenly my head began to
ache, as Avenged Sevenfold’s “Chapter Four” grated on my nerves. I turned the radio off, but quickly decided that the
silence did not console me. In fact, quite the opposite. Opening the CD case on the seat next to me I exchanged hard
core punk-rock for a collection of symphonies composed by Felix Mendelssohn. I immediately selected what is in my
opinion Mendelssohn’s greatest work – “The Hebrides Overture”.
After I killed the lawyer I fully expected to bear an emotional consequence. Though intrigued at my lack of emotion
that morning, I thought that eventually the weight of what I had done would crash down upon my conscience. Weeks
passed, and then months, still I felt nothing. When I say that I felt nothing I mean that to include all emotional variants.
Not joy, nor sorrow, nor anything between those two points of reference.
I found myself pondering more the question of why I felt nothing about killing the lawyer than I did about the very
idea of what I had done. I wondered if my state was indicative of my true nature, or simply an aberration. About six
months later I would be granted an opportunity to answer that question.
My sister is a year and half older than me. When I was younger I resented the fact that she was able to do things
that I was not, as her advanced age benefited her. I also resented the special attention that she garnered from
everyone, especially my parents. I was constantly made aware that my sister was favored, as she was “gifted”. Not
once, not twice, but three times she was advanced a grade in elementary school because she was too intelligent for
the material. In high school she was enrolled in additional college curriculum such as trigonometry, literature, biology,
and psychology.
However, as we both got older and the gap between our maturity levels decreased, I developed the belief that my
sister and I were equals. I dispensed with my envy of her. In fact I pitied her as people that thought her more than she
was. You see, I believe that there are numerous ways to gage intelligence; many of which are not tested as standard.
That is because most people tend to see intelligence as only a small, closed mind measures all things – only what can
be seen easily. Isn’t imaginative ability or artistic creativity a measure of intelligence? Most would say they are not. I
disagree.
At any rate, I quickly became thankful that my sister was older than me. Very often she would be accompanied
home by one or more of her girlfriends. What hormonally driven teenage boy would complain about bubbly young girls
being brought to his home? As the years progressed I became good friends with many of my sister’s girlfriends. On
occasion a few of them snuck into my room when they spent the night.
Six months after I killed the lawyer, my sister’s friend Julie came over to the house very late. I said hello to her but
she paid me no mind, which for this flirtatious girl was unusual. Purposely I passed quietly by my sisters room where I
heard Julie talking to my sister, she was crying. At times sobbing.
When Julie left our house late that night, little did I know it was the last time that I would ever see her. Three days
later Julie was found dead in her apartment. She had filled her bathtub with water before slitting her wrists, taking her
own life. Of course my sister was devastated.
After the funeral my sister and I had a long talks. My sister told me that the night when Julie had come over so late,
she had confided some horrible news. It seemed that Julie had been raped by man that she worked with. Julie felt so
disgusted with herself that she could not bear to live any longer.
There and then I decided to rectify the situation, to balance the equation. Carefully, without her realizing, I got my
sister to give me information about the man that raped Julie. I then began to research him, to learn of everything that
the rapist involved in his life. I was patient. I was methodical. I watched every move he made, learned every pattern
and habit he had. I stalked my prey with cold, calculating precision.
A month removed from Julie’s suicide, a month exactly, I set out on a mission that would change my life forever. It
was a Monday night and just the rapist had done each of the previous four Monday nights, he went to a local sports
bar to watch the football game. Once at the bar the rapist consumed a generous amount of alcohol. Though he never
realized, I watched him the entire night.
At the two-minute warning of the fourth quarter, the rapist gloating and full of bravado, no doubt a winner from a
wager made on the game, went into the restroom. Throughout the bar there was commotion that bordered on the
chaotic. Large portions of the bar’s patrons were exiting to the parking lot. Many continued to drink while throwing
darts and shooting pool.
I waded through the crowds following the rapist to the men’s restroom; I then followed him inside. My timing was
perfect – no one had followed me into the restroom and as I entered the rapist had his back to me while he emptied his
bladder at the urinal. For a moment I was tempted to kill him there, but I could not risk it. At any moment someone
could walk in on me.
I washed my hands while keeping visual contact on the rapist through the corner of my eye. After shaking it one
time too many he shuffled to the sink and began washing up. Our eyes met briefly as I turned to exit the restroom.
At the bar I nursed an iced tea while I watched the rapist proposition many young girls, rejection coming swiftly from
each. Close to an hour after the conclusion of the football game, the population of the bar dwindling, the rapist finally
left.
I followed him outside and around to the back of the building. The night air was crisp and unusually quiet. Although
I had to suffer through the doldrums of waiting while the rapist made a fool of himself, one good thing came of it: The
parking lot was devoid of people.
Quietly I walked toward the rapist as he slid a key into the door lock of his car. With a rehearsed motion pulled a ski
mask down around my face and then drew my gun – a snub nose .38. The barrel was at the rapist’s head before he
realized and the trigger pulled before he could react.
I guided him down to the ground ignoring the gurgling sound emanating from his lifeless body. Quickly I rifled
through his pockets and removed his wallet; my hope was that this would give the illusion of a robbery. The entire
exchange lasted mere seconds. As if out on a gentle evening stroll I walked away, heading for my car parked several
blocks away.
The rain had subsided causing the night to become a yellow streetlight flared haze. Now, just mere blocks from his
house, I pulled my car over and shut it off. The silence did not console me. Instead the silence allowed for the perfect
opportunity for my emotions to breath life into an ill fated articulation. That is, against sound judgment I would now
embark on a mission because of feeling.
I believe in God. Surprising isn’t it? A hypocritical contradiction to my chosen profession, perhaps? If one chooses
to make that argument I would simply reject the premise. I do not believe that my knowledge of a Supreme Being and
my ability to murder are in conflict. We are all born to fulfill a certain purpose; each person has been issued attributes
and abilities specific to their purposed tasks. My unique gifts are those suited to murder. However, I actually think that
labeling myself as a selfish murdering bastard is a bit too harsh. As I see it I do not murder as so much as I purge. Like
taking out society’s trash.
That being said, I am not so delusional to think that I am on some holy quest or mission from God. I do not murder
to carry out a fanatical agenda. But, I do believe in the concept of predestination. Though we may seemingly have
freewill – today I choose chocolate ice cream instead of vanilla – I believe that we are all slaves to God’s will. If a
person is meant to die on a certain day, at a specific time; if that is God’s will for that person…then it shall be,
regardless if it is I that pulls the trigger or by way of a massive heart attack.
Earlier as I broke into my original mark’s apartment, as I put the barrel of my gun up to her head, I felt that God did
not have that girl’s death planned for this day. Did God speak directly to me in order for me to make that
determination? No. God need not always speak directly for the message to be heard. Often there are clear signs of
the message God sends. The positive pregnancy test on the girl’s bathroom counter was indication enough.
However, God did not stop there. Tearfully the girl told me that if she wasn’t pregnant she would beg me to kill her.
Three weeks ago she was raped; the rape caused her to be with child. As if I was given permission by both God and
the girl, the rapist’s location was provided to me. She knew her tormenter well – He was college professor, as well as a
close family friend.
A slight fog began to appear on the car windows. I checked my weapons. To the barrel of my gun I attached a
silencer. I slid my knife out, admired the razor sharpness, and then slid it back into the sheath on my belt. I then made
a cursory inventory of various tools I had assembled within a small duffle bag.
With drizzle signaling the impending return of heavier rain I left my car. Quickly and stealthily I made my way
through the sleepy neighborhood. When I came within three houses of my target I stopped. Finding adequate cover
within well trimmed shrubbery I watched the house.
For almost fifteen minutes I observed. The house was completely dark except for the light at the front door. A
thorough soaking as well as impatience finally rested me away from my shadow. I crossed the street nonchalantly and
walked to the gate accessing the backyard.
The driveway was unoccupied and I could see an oil stain on the concrete. This led me to hypothesize that my
target parked his oil-leaking car on the driveway on a regular basis. Because of the absent car I began to entertain the
possibility that good fortune was mine. Perhaps my target had not yet come home.
Quietly I opened the gate and stepped into the backyard. Pulling the gun from my jacket I stood silent and
unmoving for several minutes. When I felt certain that I had not been spotted or had been discovered by a backyard
dog I began to move. Cautiously I walked around the side of the house to the back taking note of every window and
door. After considering the layout of the house I decided that breaking in through the side garage door would be the
best option.
As I made it back to the garage door the rain began to pour. Good. The noise of the rain would mask the minimal
noise I was about to make. From my bag I retrieved a small battery powered drill. The drill was outfitted with a thin
titanium drill bit specifically made for cutting. Within seconds I had drilled into the door just above the deadbolt and
then cut down through the latch. I did the same to the doorknob latch as well. I exchanged the drill for a penlight and
then went into the garage.
The garage was relatively barren and well organized. And, there was no car inside. My target was not home which
meant that the advantage was swayed completely in my direction. Instead of trying to sneak into an unknown
residence, wrought with unknown dangers, attempting to kill an unknown man with unknown abilities, I was now able to
lye in wait for him. I made short work of the door accessing the interior of the house. Once inside I silently stalked the
halls, ensuring that it was indeed vacant and memorizing the layout.
Never before had I ever met one of my paying customers, nor had I ever paid a visit to my customer’s residence. I
am not in what one might call a people-skills business. The network that I have created is nearly fool proof. I am
contacted without knowing who is enlisting my services and then I agree to take on a contract without ever knowing
who is paying me, and that is all done via the internet.
Because of Californian liberal idiots I was able to obtain a false identity. I passed myself off as a Mexican and got a
new driver’s license from the Davis, California DMV where the progressive thinking peopled employed there routinely
hand out driver’s licenses to illegal immigrants. With this new identity I got a social security number, several credit
cards, and several bank accounts. It is through that identity that I launder all of the money that is paid to me. The
money is scattered throughout cyberspace and diverted several different ways until it reaches one of two final
destinations: an offshore Swiss bank account or the mainland account held by my Mexican alter ego. When I physically
receive the money it has been on such a wild ride that it is virtually untraceable.
For a time I hid silently, concealed within a deep shadow. Usually I could lie in wait for my prey, never moving,
always invisible, until it was time to act. However, I found myself to be uncharacteristically nervous. I needed to move.
From where I was hidden I could see into the living room where a computer was on. I found my self drawn to the
computer, the hypnotic rhythm of the screen saver dancing across the screen. Slowly I went into the living room,
carefully checking the windows to make sure there were no cars outside.
I walked to the desk in the living room, pulled out the chair, and sat down. I surveyed the new vantage point and
estimated that I would be able to see any car that pulled into the driveway. Deciding that it was safe enough, I turned
my attention to the computer.
A flick of the mouse cleared the screen saver and brought up the desktop. I clicked on My Documents and when
the window popped up I began checking the file names. Almost instantly I found a file folder entitled “Internet Special”.
My stomach knotted.
When I first contact a potential new client I always do so via email. In the email I issue the client a code phrase to be
included within the subject line when they return the email to me, that way I know that it is the client I am dealing with.
For this job, the code phrase was “This week’s Internet Special”.
I opened the folder and I found several Word documents. The file names for the Word documents were rather
nondescript, as they were numerically titled. I opened file # 1 and I found the information regarding my contract: The
price, the terms, the information I required, and the fee. Contained within file # 2 I found the information about my
target. A detailed biography that my employer compiled about my target.
File # 3 was a dated timeline of when my client first decided to kill the girl, when he decided to pay to have her
killed, when he began to research hired killers, when he first contacted me, and when he agreed to my terms.
I could hear a car outside. I readied my gun and moved to the window. The car continued on down the street and
finally out of sight.
It was stupid, but I went back to the computer, there was only one remaining file and I was curious. Besides, I had in
mind to delete all files that made any mention of me. When the police found my client’s decomposing body I didn’t want
then to find any indication of me along with it.
Clicking on file # 4 the screen flashed and the document appeared on the screen. I gasped, horrified at what I saw.
My real first, middle, and last name appeared on the very first line on the page. It was in bold faced print and
underlined. Underneath my name was all of my most protected information. My age and date of birth. My address. My
phone number. Social Security Number. The make and model of the car I drove including the license plate number and
the vehicle’s identification number.
Further down the page I saw the name of my alias and all of the fake particulars I created for him. I then saw bank
account information for both myself and my alias, complete with transaction records and current balances. That was
followed by the account numbers to my off shore accounts.
Stunned, I took a deep breath and tried to think it through. How this could have happened, how I could have been
discovered…but, that was not important right now. I realized that at the very least I had been discovered. Worse, this
could very well be a trap.
I deleted the Internet Special file. I spun around and got up from my chair. Out of the corner of my eye I saw light
reflect off of the silver barrel of a gun.
“Drop the gun,” he said.
I put my hands up without dropping the gun. “All right man, okay. Let’s just be cool.”
“I am cool. Now drop the gun.”
I groaned. “How did you find out about me?” I asked hoping to stall for the right moment.
My client took a step forward, exactly what I was hoping for. “Stop stalling. Drop your gun.”
As hard as I could I threw my gun at his face and dove to my left. Just as I expected he flinched and fired his gun,
the bullet missing me completely. Low to the ground I jumped up and grabbed his gun hand with both of mine. With
both of us struggling against each other, I managed to bend his arm so that the gun was pointing to the side. I
attacked his lead leg with a barrage of front kicks. I pushed against him and then suddenly pulled his gun arm back
and straight out. I chopped down on his forearm with all of my might and he dropped his gun. I shoved him away from
me and pulled my knife.
My client rebounded off of a wall and attacked me with a wild punch. I dodged the haymaker, slipped underneath
his arm, and slashed upwards and then back across his torso. Two deep cuts that drew blood. As he staggered
clutching his chest I exploded into him with a side kick. Striking the wall a second time caused him collapse to the floor.
I switched the grip of my knife to the ice-pick grip and moved in for the kill. Just as I raised my arm I was knocked
forward by the impact of a bullet.
On the ground, my head echoed from the gun blast and my back burned as I began to sink deeper into the black
ocean consuming my thoughts, peacefully to sleep this off, the pain burning hotter but escaping from me at the same
time, liquid life pouring red out of me, quiet now, quiet, everything is going to be all right…
Suddenly from somewhere deep within the black ocean I heard myself screaming. I pushed myself up and tried to
run away. I stumbled and then fell against a wall. Bracing myself against it I walked as fast as I could. If I could make it
to one of the bed rooms I could get out through a window.
“Where are your going Mark?” The beautiful sound of her voice made me stop. I turned to face her, not yet
believing. At first I thought that I was hallucinating. I told myself that it was the blood loss that was making this false
image appear in my mind. But then I saw her with my gun in hand, a gun that I chose not to use tonight.
“Why?”
Her smile was wicked and sweet all at once. “For the money.”
“I would have given you anything you wanted,” I told her.
“But this was more fun.”
Maybe it was the shock from blood loss, or maybe it was the shock of realization, but I did not have the strength to
stop her from aiming the barrel of my own gun at my head. And just as I heard the hammer of the gun click it all fell into
place, each small indicator, every inferring comment, all of the manipulative information that she had given me…
I thought that I was so smart. I thought that I was unbeatable. Arrogance was my downfall. I never saw that I was set
up from the beginning. I should have realized how brilliant she really was. I should have seen through the obvious trap,
the invitation that I could not resist. After all, how is it that a sociopath has such a desire for justice?
In the moment before the bullet crushed my skull I chuckled. I recalled the argument that had raged within the
depths of my mind. The argument that I forced myself to ignore, to not articulate with precise language, now became
clear to me: logic versus emotion. It was not logical for me to take such a risk. But, the emotional validation that I felt
forced me to act on the principal of justice.
If I killed the girl, then her and her child would have twice been victimized by a rapist. If I simply walked away the
rapist would simply kill the girl himself or hire another killer. Neither scenario was correct according to my sensibilities.
However, if I killed the man that raped the girl, the man that hired me to kill the woman that he impregnated, then
justice would be served.
Logic dictated that I walk away. Emotion demanded that I make things right for this girl and her unborn child. My
only regret is that I failed and now the girl was dead.
I saw the irony. By way of my logical rules I conducted my life. I used logic to conduct the business of fate, all the
while logic kept me absolved. All those that I murdered were killed because they had allowed emotion to rule there
lives. Emotion entangled them within a situation where their fates were sealed – by me. And now, I was on the other
side, my fate sealed.
This night was truly about fate, divine providence, the will of God. We are all slaves to His will, and I tried to live as
though I was somehow above that. I finally experienced the very concept that I used to justify killing: Sooner or later
God’s will will get you.
I said a prayer as I died. I praised God and asked forgiveness for my sins. I welcomed the darkness and then the
light. For the light is the life of men, and my fate the will of God.
By
JASON DANIEL COVEY
______________________________________________________
As rain fell about the car, wind driven sheets attacking from all directions, I began to discern a complex message; a
clear pattern in the rhythm of the falling rain. Though I realized that the repetitive message originated from the furthest
depths of my mind, I forced myself to ignore the content, to label it as nothing more than an associative condition in
concert with an external stimulus.
Unwanted, yet too powerful to hold at bay, I knew that the complex message was actually an argument – though I
chose not to examine it. If I examined what it was I might scare myself from what I felt compelled to do. Never before
had my emotions controlled my actions, but they were doing so now. I continued forth only allowing my logical mind to
arrive at the simple and obvious conclusion…
I must be crazy.
The position that I had been in prior, and still remained, was that of the untouchable. I knew that I should simply
walk away. After all, I truly had no vested interest in the outcome. I had nothing to gain by becoming deeply involved,
but I had much to lose. Upon further examination I concluded that this night’s events had simply been random
happenstance, nothing more. Unexpected and unexplainable, yet perfectly predictable, that is if you expect to
encounter the unexpected.
I knew that I should chalk this up to a fortunate escape from unforeseen circumstances and simply absolve myself
from the situation. That was, after all, the safest course of action. A correct judgment made by logic. However, sound
judgment notwithstanding, I continued to press on into unfolding events orchestrated by the bizarre.
Recalling the memory once again I decided that it was the eyes. With the silenced barrel of my gun firmly against
her skull I looked into her eyes and that is when everything changed. Piercing my soul, her gaze postponed her death
– a death that, before that moment, I was committed to bring forth.
I am a killer. I murder for money. And this night began like any other night when I am to apply the craft of my trade.
That is to say I was completely prepared to carry out my contracted obligation. Just after nightfall, I dressed in a dark
hooded sweatshirt, dark blue jeans, a black bomber jacket, a black American Choppers hat, and a broken-in pair of
black Vans. From a wooden box in the garage I retrieved a six-inch Cold Steel Tanto knife, a Beretta 9MM semi-
automatic handgun, a silencer for my firearm, and my tool bag. Equipped with all that I would need I walked out the
door.
In the red light’s glow I waited to continue, traffic filling in the lanes around me. It would seem that destiny was giving
me every chance to discontinue. It would also seem that fate had led me to another course of action.
Again, I was thrust back to the memory of her eyes. It struck me suddenly as the horn of the car behind me blared:
The pain she felt had been transferred to my mind by way of her piercing gaze. It was an immensely sad pain. Before
now I had not been able to articulate it. Now I was beginning to understand my unprecedented mercy. I decided, in
carefully examined and chosen words, that I did not kill her because I would have felt guilty.
I am sociopathic as a pre-1990 psychologist might say. Contemporaries of the field, however, would now label me
as “anti-social”. Whichever term one chooses the fact remains, I feel nothing when I kill. That does not mean that I do
not know right from wrong. That also does not mean that I do not have a conscience. I understand and fully
acknowledge the consequences for the decisions I make. And I do feel emotion as it pertains to my behavior. For
instance if I offend some one, especially some one I care about, I am wrought with guilt. However, as I discovered
almost two years ago, killing is a numb experience for me.
The first time I ever killed a man was brought on by a sense of righteous fury. A month removed from high school
graduation my friend James and I were skateboarding in the parking lot of a strip mall. About one o’clock in the
morning an idiot in a security guard uniform started bothering us and so we decided to leave. James crossed the
street and a drunk driver without his lights on ran him down. He was killed instantly.
The police came and arrested the driver of the Mercedes, though at that time it was little consolation to James’s
family or to me. The driver, who turned out to be a prominent lawyer, was released on bail less than 48 hours later. At
his trial a month later the lawyer filed a motion for a mistrial based on a lapse in the police department’s investigative
procedure related to the manner in which his blood alcohol level was determined. The lawyer successfully claimed that
he was not drunk; that hitting James was a result of James wearing dark clothes, thus being hard to see at night, and
running out into the middle of the street.
Not that I wish to aid lawyers in their mission to give themselves a bad reputation – they are quite astute in that
endeavor without my assistance – this was a case where a very bad man blatantly lied and benefited from that lie. I
myself saw this man slur and stumble the night he killed an innocent person. I myself then witnessed how this man lied
to absolve himself from responsibility. There was no justice in what had happened. It was that point, not that my best
friend had been murdered, which ignited a deep fury within me. And it was by that fury that I killed for the first time.
After very little research I discovered the location of the lawyer’s office. I studied his routine for nearly two weeks.
Every Monday and Thursday, early in the morning before sunrise, the lawyer would go for a jog along the bike trail
that ran next to the American River. As I hid in the thick foliage, dressed all in black, a Louisville Slugger at the ready, I
was interested in the remarkable calmness I felt. At the time I thought it was simply a peace brought about by knowing
that it was justice which was about to triumph. But as I repaid the lawyer for his actions, first by breaking his right knee
and then crushing his skull, I was intrigued at how I felt nothing for what I had done.
The rain had stopped falling, the water on the street spinning through the tire tread. Suddenly my head began to
ache, as Avenged Sevenfold’s “Chapter Four” grated on my nerves. I turned the radio off, but quickly decided that the
silence did not console me. In fact, quite the opposite. Opening the CD case on the seat next to me I exchanged hard
core punk-rock for a collection of symphonies composed by Felix Mendelssohn. I immediately selected what is in my
opinion Mendelssohn’s greatest work – “The Hebrides Overture”.
After I killed the lawyer I fully expected to bear an emotional consequence. Though intrigued at my lack of emotion
that morning, I thought that eventually the weight of what I had done would crash down upon my conscience. Weeks
passed, and then months, still I felt nothing. When I say that I felt nothing I mean that to include all emotional variants.
Not joy, nor sorrow, nor anything between those two points of reference.
I found myself pondering more the question of why I felt nothing about killing the lawyer than I did about the very
idea of what I had done. I wondered if my state was indicative of my true nature, or simply an aberration. About six
months later I would be granted an opportunity to answer that question.
My sister is a year and half older than me. When I was younger I resented the fact that she was able to do things
that I was not, as her advanced age benefited her. I also resented the special attention that she garnered from
everyone, especially my parents. I was constantly made aware that my sister was favored, as she was “gifted”. Not
once, not twice, but three times she was advanced a grade in elementary school because she was too intelligent for
the material. In high school she was enrolled in additional college curriculum such as trigonometry, literature, biology,
and psychology.
However, as we both got older and the gap between our maturity levels decreased, I developed the belief that my
sister and I were equals. I dispensed with my envy of her. In fact I pitied her as people that thought her more than she
was. You see, I believe that there are numerous ways to gage intelligence; many of which are not tested as standard.
That is because most people tend to see intelligence as only a small, closed mind measures all things – only what can
be seen easily. Isn’t imaginative ability or artistic creativity a measure of intelligence? Most would say they are not. I
disagree.
At any rate, I quickly became thankful that my sister was older than me. Very often she would be accompanied
home by one or more of her girlfriends. What hormonally driven teenage boy would complain about bubbly young girls
being brought to his home? As the years progressed I became good friends with many of my sister’s girlfriends. On
occasion a few of them snuck into my room when they spent the night.
Six months after I killed the lawyer, my sister’s friend Julie came over to the house very late. I said hello to her but
she paid me no mind, which for this flirtatious girl was unusual. Purposely I passed quietly by my sisters room where I
heard Julie talking to my sister, she was crying. At times sobbing.
When Julie left our house late that night, little did I know it was the last time that I would ever see her. Three days
later Julie was found dead in her apartment. She had filled her bathtub with water before slitting her wrists, taking her
own life. Of course my sister was devastated.
After the funeral my sister and I had a long talks. My sister told me that the night when Julie had come over so late,
she had confided some horrible news. It seemed that Julie had been raped by man that she worked with. Julie felt so
disgusted with herself that she could not bear to live any longer.
There and then I decided to rectify the situation, to balance the equation. Carefully, without her realizing, I got my
sister to give me information about the man that raped Julie. I then began to research him, to learn of everything that
the rapist involved in his life. I was patient. I was methodical. I watched every move he made, learned every pattern
and habit he had. I stalked my prey with cold, calculating precision.
A month removed from Julie’s suicide, a month exactly, I set out on a mission that would change my life forever. It
was a Monday night and just the rapist had done each of the previous four Monday nights, he went to a local sports
bar to watch the football game. Once at the bar the rapist consumed a generous amount of alcohol. Though he never
realized, I watched him the entire night.
At the two-minute warning of the fourth quarter, the rapist gloating and full of bravado, no doubt a winner from a
wager made on the game, went into the restroom. Throughout the bar there was commotion that bordered on the
chaotic. Large portions of the bar’s patrons were exiting to the parking lot. Many continued to drink while throwing
darts and shooting pool.
I waded through the crowds following the rapist to the men’s restroom; I then followed him inside. My timing was
perfect – no one had followed me into the restroom and as I entered the rapist had his back to me while he emptied his
bladder at the urinal. For a moment I was tempted to kill him there, but I could not risk it. At any moment someone
could walk in on me.
I washed my hands while keeping visual contact on the rapist through the corner of my eye. After shaking it one
time too many he shuffled to the sink and began washing up. Our eyes met briefly as I turned to exit the restroom.
At the bar I nursed an iced tea while I watched the rapist proposition many young girls, rejection coming swiftly from
each. Close to an hour after the conclusion of the football game, the population of the bar dwindling, the rapist finally
left.
I followed him outside and around to the back of the building. The night air was crisp and unusually quiet. Although
I had to suffer through the doldrums of waiting while the rapist made a fool of himself, one good thing came of it: The
parking lot was devoid of people.
Quietly I walked toward the rapist as he slid a key into the door lock of his car. With a rehearsed motion pulled a ski
mask down around my face and then drew my gun – a snub nose .38. The barrel was at the rapist’s head before he
realized and the trigger pulled before he could react.
I guided him down to the ground ignoring the gurgling sound emanating from his lifeless body. Quickly I rifled
through his pockets and removed his wallet; my hope was that this would give the illusion of a robbery. The entire
exchange lasted mere seconds. As if out on a gentle evening stroll I walked away, heading for my car parked several
blocks away.
The rain had subsided causing the night to become a yellow streetlight flared haze. Now, just mere blocks from his
house, I pulled my car over and shut it off. The silence did not console me. Instead the silence allowed for the perfect
opportunity for my emotions to breath life into an ill fated articulation. That is, against sound judgment I would now
embark on a mission because of feeling.
I believe in God. Surprising isn’t it? A hypocritical contradiction to my chosen profession, perhaps? If one chooses
to make that argument I would simply reject the premise. I do not believe that my knowledge of a Supreme Being and
my ability to murder are in conflict. We are all born to fulfill a certain purpose; each person has been issued attributes
and abilities specific to their purposed tasks. My unique gifts are those suited to murder. However, I actually think that
labeling myself as a selfish murdering bastard is a bit too harsh. As I see it I do not murder as so much as I purge. Like
taking out society’s trash.
That being said, I am not so delusional to think that I am on some holy quest or mission from God. I do not murder
to carry out a fanatical agenda. But, I do believe in the concept of predestination. Though we may seemingly have
freewill – today I choose chocolate ice cream instead of vanilla – I believe that we are all slaves to God’s will. If a
person is meant to die on a certain day, at a specific time; if that is God’s will for that person…then it shall be,
regardless if it is I that pulls the trigger or by way of a massive heart attack.
Earlier as I broke into my original mark’s apartment, as I put the barrel of my gun up to her head, I felt that God did
not have that girl’s death planned for this day. Did God speak directly to me in order for me to make that
determination? No. God need not always speak directly for the message to be heard. Often there are clear signs of
the message God sends. The positive pregnancy test on the girl’s bathroom counter was indication enough.
However, God did not stop there. Tearfully the girl told me that if she wasn’t pregnant she would beg me to kill her.
Three weeks ago she was raped; the rape caused her to be with child. As if I was given permission by both God and
the girl, the rapist’s location was provided to me. She knew her tormenter well – He was college professor, as well as a
close family friend.
A slight fog began to appear on the car windows. I checked my weapons. To the barrel of my gun I attached a
silencer. I slid my knife out, admired the razor sharpness, and then slid it back into the sheath on my belt. I then made
a cursory inventory of various tools I had assembled within a small duffle bag.
With drizzle signaling the impending return of heavier rain I left my car. Quickly and stealthily I made my way
through the sleepy neighborhood. When I came within three houses of my target I stopped. Finding adequate cover
within well trimmed shrubbery I watched the house.
For almost fifteen minutes I observed. The house was completely dark except for the light at the front door. A
thorough soaking as well as impatience finally rested me away from my shadow. I crossed the street nonchalantly and
walked to the gate accessing the backyard.
The driveway was unoccupied and I could see an oil stain on the concrete. This led me to hypothesize that my
target parked his oil-leaking car on the driveway on a regular basis. Because of the absent car I began to entertain the
possibility that good fortune was mine. Perhaps my target had not yet come home.
Quietly I opened the gate and stepped into the backyard. Pulling the gun from my jacket I stood silent and
unmoving for several minutes. When I felt certain that I had not been spotted or had been discovered by a backyard
dog I began to move. Cautiously I walked around the side of the house to the back taking note of every window and
door. After considering the layout of the house I decided that breaking in through the side garage door would be the
best option.
As I made it back to the garage door the rain began to pour. Good. The noise of the rain would mask the minimal
noise I was about to make. From my bag I retrieved a small battery powered drill. The drill was outfitted with a thin
titanium drill bit specifically made for cutting. Within seconds I had drilled into the door just above the deadbolt and
then cut down through the latch. I did the same to the doorknob latch as well. I exchanged the drill for a penlight and
then went into the garage.
The garage was relatively barren and well organized. And, there was no car inside. My target was not home which
meant that the advantage was swayed completely in my direction. Instead of trying to sneak into an unknown
residence, wrought with unknown dangers, attempting to kill an unknown man with unknown abilities, I was now able to
lye in wait for him. I made short work of the door accessing the interior of the house. Once inside I silently stalked the
halls, ensuring that it was indeed vacant and memorizing the layout.
Never before had I ever met one of my paying customers, nor had I ever paid a visit to my customer’s residence. I
am not in what one might call a people-skills business. The network that I have created is nearly fool proof. I am
contacted without knowing who is enlisting my services and then I agree to take on a contract without ever knowing
who is paying me, and that is all done via the internet.
Because of Californian liberal idiots I was able to obtain a false identity. I passed myself off as a Mexican and got a
new driver’s license from the Davis, California DMV where the progressive thinking peopled employed there routinely
hand out driver’s licenses to illegal immigrants. With this new identity I got a social security number, several credit
cards, and several bank accounts. It is through that identity that I launder all of the money that is paid to me. The
money is scattered throughout cyberspace and diverted several different ways until it reaches one of two final
destinations: an offshore Swiss bank account or the mainland account held by my Mexican alter ego. When I physically
receive the money it has been on such a wild ride that it is virtually untraceable.
For a time I hid silently, concealed within a deep shadow. Usually I could lie in wait for my prey, never moving,
always invisible, until it was time to act. However, I found myself to be uncharacteristically nervous. I needed to move.
From where I was hidden I could see into the living room where a computer was on. I found my self drawn to the
computer, the hypnotic rhythm of the screen saver dancing across the screen. Slowly I went into the living room,
carefully checking the windows to make sure there were no cars outside.
I walked to the desk in the living room, pulled out the chair, and sat down. I surveyed the new vantage point and
estimated that I would be able to see any car that pulled into the driveway. Deciding that it was safe enough, I turned
my attention to the computer.
A flick of the mouse cleared the screen saver and brought up the desktop. I clicked on My Documents and when
the window popped up I began checking the file names. Almost instantly I found a file folder entitled “Internet Special”.
My stomach knotted.
When I first contact a potential new client I always do so via email. In the email I issue the client a code phrase to be
included within the subject line when they return the email to me, that way I know that it is the client I am dealing with.
For this job, the code phrase was “This week’s Internet Special”.
I opened the folder and I found several Word documents. The file names for the Word documents were rather
nondescript, as they were numerically titled. I opened file # 1 and I found the information regarding my contract: The
price, the terms, the information I required, and the fee. Contained within file # 2 I found the information about my
target. A detailed biography that my employer compiled about my target.
File # 3 was a dated timeline of when my client first decided to kill the girl, when he decided to pay to have her
killed, when he began to research hired killers, when he first contacted me, and when he agreed to my terms.
I could hear a car outside. I readied my gun and moved to the window. The car continued on down the street and
finally out of sight.
It was stupid, but I went back to the computer, there was only one remaining file and I was curious. Besides, I had in
mind to delete all files that made any mention of me. When the police found my client’s decomposing body I didn’t want
then to find any indication of me along with it.
Clicking on file # 4 the screen flashed and the document appeared on the screen. I gasped, horrified at what I saw.
My real first, middle, and last name appeared on the very first line on the page. It was in bold faced print and
underlined. Underneath my name was all of my most protected information. My age and date of birth. My address. My
phone number. Social Security Number. The make and model of the car I drove including the license plate number and
the vehicle’s identification number.
Further down the page I saw the name of my alias and all of the fake particulars I created for him. I then saw bank
account information for both myself and my alias, complete with transaction records and current balances. That was
followed by the account numbers to my off shore accounts.
Stunned, I took a deep breath and tried to think it through. How this could have happened, how I could have been
discovered…but, that was not important right now. I realized that at the very least I had been discovered. Worse, this
could very well be a trap.
I deleted the Internet Special file. I spun around and got up from my chair. Out of the corner of my eye I saw light
reflect off of the silver barrel of a gun.
“Drop the gun,” he said.
I put my hands up without dropping the gun. “All right man, okay. Let’s just be cool.”
“I am cool. Now drop the gun.”
I groaned. “How did you find out about me?” I asked hoping to stall for the right moment.
My client took a step forward, exactly what I was hoping for. “Stop stalling. Drop your gun.”
As hard as I could I threw my gun at his face and dove to my left. Just as I expected he flinched and fired his gun,
the bullet missing me completely. Low to the ground I jumped up and grabbed his gun hand with both of mine. With
both of us struggling against each other, I managed to bend his arm so that the gun was pointing to the side. I
attacked his lead leg with a barrage of front kicks. I pushed against him and then suddenly pulled his gun arm back
and straight out. I chopped down on his forearm with all of my might and he dropped his gun. I shoved him away from
me and pulled my knife.
My client rebounded off of a wall and attacked me with a wild punch. I dodged the haymaker, slipped underneath
his arm, and slashed upwards and then back across his torso. Two deep cuts that drew blood. As he staggered
clutching his chest I exploded into him with a side kick. Striking the wall a second time caused him collapse to the floor.
I switched the grip of my knife to the ice-pick grip and moved in for the kill. Just as I raised my arm I was knocked
forward by the impact of a bullet.
On the ground, my head echoed from the gun blast and my back burned as I began to sink deeper into the black
ocean consuming my thoughts, peacefully to sleep this off, the pain burning hotter but escaping from me at the same
time, liquid life pouring red out of me, quiet now, quiet, everything is going to be all right…
Suddenly from somewhere deep within the black ocean I heard myself screaming. I pushed myself up and tried to
run away. I stumbled and then fell against a wall. Bracing myself against it I walked as fast as I could. If I could make it
to one of the bed rooms I could get out through a window.
“Where are your going Mark?” The beautiful sound of her voice made me stop. I turned to face her, not yet
believing. At first I thought that I was hallucinating. I told myself that it was the blood loss that was making this false
image appear in my mind. But then I saw her with my gun in hand, a gun that I chose not to use tonight.
“Why?”
Her smile was wicked and sweet all at once. “For the money.”
“I would have given you anything you wanted,” I told her.
“But this was more fun.”
Maybe it was the shock from blood loss, or maybe it was the shock of realization, but I did not have the strength to
stop her from aiming the barrel of my own gun at my head. And just as I heard the hammer of the gun click it all fell into
place, each small indicator, every inferring comment, all of the manipulative information that she had given me…
I thought that I was so smart. I thought that I was unbeatable. Arrogance was my downfall. I never saw that I was set
up from the beginning. I should have realized how brilliant she really was. I should have seen through the obvious trap,
the invitation that I could not resist. After all, how is it that a sociopath has such a desire for justice?
In the moment before the bullet crushed my skull I chuckled. I recalled the argument that had raged within the
depths of my mind. The argument that I forced myself to ignore, to not articulate with precise language, now became
clear to me: logic versus emotion. It was not logical for me to take such a risk. But, the emotional validation that I felt
forced me to act on the principal of justice.
If I killed the girl, then her and her child would have twice been victimized by a rapist. If I simply walked away the
rapist would simply kill the girl himself or hire another killer. Neither scenario was correct according to my sensibilities.
However, if I killed the man that raped the girl, the man that hired me to kill the woman that he impregnated, then
justice would be served.
Logic dictated that I walk away. Emotion demanded that I make things right for this girl and her unborn child. My
only regret is that I failed and now the girl was dead.
I saw the irony. By way of my logical rules I conducted my life. I used logic to conduct the business of fate, all the
while logic kept me absolved. All those that I murdered were killed because they had allowed emotion to rule there
lives. Emotion entangled them within a situation where their fates were sealed – by me. And now, I was on the other
side, my fate sealed.
This night was truly about fate, divine providence, the will of God. We are all slaves to His will, and I tried to live as
though I was somehow above that. I finally experienced the very concept that I used to justify killing: Sooner or later
God’s will will get you.
I said a prayer as I died. I praised God and asked forgiveness for my sins. I welcomed the darkness and then the
light. For the light is the life of men, and my fate the will of God.
