Note: I don't know how I like the sudden change of point of view. I always feel weird writing in real descriptive english when telling a story from a first-person point of view, so that's what the crude language and rudimentary vocabulary is used. I always felt that everyone that tells a story is not a good writer.
Lewis Montour
I’m going to kill him. I’m going to
fucking kill him. That fucking piece of shit, he’s dead. I’m going to get in my goddamn car. Where are my keys? I’m not going to walk to kill that fuck. I’m driving my ass there.
“Ma? Where are my fuckin’ keys?”
“I’m so sick and tired of that mouth, young man, if your father was here, he’d really tell…”
It just melts away, gab, gab, gab, gab. I think she hides my stuff, just so she can bitch at me for not being able to find anything. I think she gets off on that stuff. That mother-knows best shit. She likes finding my shit too, so she can say, “Where would you be without your mother?”, and pinch my cheeks. I’m going to fucking kill him.
Under the pillow on the couch. No. Under the coffee table. No. Hanging on the key hook? Fuck off. Under the newspaper on the kitchen table. There they are. I’m going to fucking kill him.
“I’ll be back later, Ma.”
“Where you going? Did you find your keys? When…” Door shuts.
I open the car door, start it, put the car in reverse, in the rear view mirror all I can see is the sagging upholstery of the roof. My brother Max, he’s like 6 foot 7, he played basketball at the city college, but he quit and moved home, he drives my car and fucks up the mirrors and slides the seat back all the way. I’m going to fucking kill him.
I turn the wheel too quick backing out of the driveway, and clip the curb a bit. Eleven blocks to that fuck’s mothers house, he’s always there, hanging off his mother’s tit. I’m nine blocks away now. Stoplight. The only one in this area, and it’s red. I release my seatbelt and lean over to the glove compartment, I grab my gun. I’m going to fucking kill him.
Three blocks away, I can smell that French fuck from here. Lecroix. What kind of faggot last name is that? A red sedan drives by, the driver waves at me, it’s my next-door neighbor. He’s a nice guy; I nod my head back at him. I almost waved at him with the hand that’s holding the gun. I’m going to fucking kill him.
I see the side of that piece of shit he calls a house, I stop at the curb next to the house, and stick the gun inside my jacket, and get out. I leave the car running, this isn’t going to take long, and it’s cold outside, and the heater just started warming up. I’m going to fucking kill him.
I walk with big strides up to his front door, and skip the first of the three steps up to front porch. I bang on the door with the opposite hand than the one holding the gun in the jacket. He’s in there jerking off, I bet. Dumb shit.
The door opens, leaving the screen door between me and his mother. “Ms. Lecroix? Yeah, I’d like to speak with Bradley.”
Old hag smiles at me, she doesn’t look like she used too, she really doesn’t look half bad, forty, forty-five tops, probably had a face lift of something. “Come on in, Lewis, I haven’t seen you for years. You used to come over to play with Bradley all the time, you were best…” I bock her out like I do my mother, what is the cunt talking about anyway? I was
never friends with a weird fuck like Bradley Lecroix, even as a little kid, and now that he’s back in town and fucked me over, there ain’t no goddamn way. I’m going to fucking kill him.
“He’s in his room, Lewis, just go on in, he couldn’t hear you knock anyway with that stereo on so loud.” She points towards the back of her house. “You remember where that is, don’t you?”
“Of course, Ms. Lecroix.” I say. That music is pretty loud, now that I’m paying attention to it.
The door to his room is closed, he still has a bunch of signs and posters and shit all over the outside of his door. “Parents not allowed”, “Warning: Teenage boy” . He’s 27 years old, living with his mother, what a juvenile fuck. The music is blaring. I’m going to fucking kill him.
I open his door, and his room is a mess. Fast food wrappers and porno mags are all over the floor. I kick one out of the way. That music is making my ears ring. He’s lying on his bed, completely under his covers. He’s just a big fucking lump, how can he sleep with that shit on?
His windows are rattling from the bass of the stereo; it’s a pretty good stereo. I turn it up to its max volume. It should cover up the gunshot. I look behind me and see the door’s cracked open a bit. I kick it close with my leg. I take out my gun, and cock it. I put it near the top of the lump under the blankets. Guy doesn’t have a headboard on his bed, and I can’t make heads or tails of him.
I look at the mass under the covers one more time, I’m pretty sure what I’m about to shoot is the head. I turn around, and what I think is his head is lined up with his TV, I know the lazy fuck likes to watch TV. So, this would be more convenient for him. I put my gun up to him. I pull the trigger. I could barely hear it, and I was right next to it, that stereo is fucking loud. No chance his mother heard it. I take a step back and fire again. And one more time. Feathers fly up. I fucking killed him.
Feathers? He wasn’t laying under a big down comforter or anything, just a bed spread…
Lewis Montour tilts his head inquisitively as the feathers that seemingly came from the body of Bradley Lecroix waft to the ground. He shuffles slowly to the bed, and with the barrel of the gun he lifts the bedspread off of the body. It’s a big pile of pillows; two of them have holes in them, with feathers fighting to get out.
The closet door behind Lewis Montour opens quickly, and with a creak. But the stereo is up so loud he doesn’t hear a thing. Bradley Lecroix ambles out of the closet holding a shoe string that he unlaced from a pair of old basketball shoes. He stands behind Lewis Montour and loops the shoestring around his neck. He crosses each end from behind his neck and pulls them as tight as he can. Lewis Montour chokes out an expletive, as his hands grasp frantically at the shoestring at his neck. Bradley Lecroix, still pulling the shoestring tight, slowly pulls the fighting Lewis Montour over to the small mirror that hangs in the corner of his room. Lewis Montour’s eyes are already wide open, like he just saw his first pair of breasts, when he sees Bradley Lecroix with a wry smile on his face, it’s as if the eyeballs just might fall right out of their sockets.
Lewis Montour gurgles, as his face turns purple, and veins in his eyes burst and create firework like patters in the whites of his eyes. Bradley Lecroix leans back to get the most weight he can behind the shoestring, lifting Lewis off the ground, his legs kick wildly. The legs slowly stop moving, like a windup toy on its last hurrah. Lewis Montour’s eyes glaze over.
Bradley Lecroix takes the shoestring out from around his neck and tosses it back into the open closet, he leaves the body spread out on the floor, the pink line around his neck beginning to raise up and turn purple. He turns the stereo off, and as his ears ring with the sudden silence he walks back into the living room.
Ms. Lecroix is sitting on the couch smoking a cigarette, she smiles at him, “Thanks for turning the stereo up, you know I hate to heard that kind of thing.”
Bradley winks at her, and sits down on the couch next to her, she rubs her up and down on his chest before unbuttoning his pants and sliding her hand to his crotch. Bradley tilts his head back as Ms. Lecroix goes to her knees in between Bradley’s legs. Out of the corner of his eyes he spots a frame with a picture of a woman in it, sitting on the table next to the couch. He puts it face down on the table. He doesn’t want to see a picture of his mother while he’s fucking his girlfriend.
