Snap

“I barely knew my real father, a real bastard, but I was fortunate enough to have only met him a few times during my childhood. The man I would call dad decided to hang himself in the closet of a worn down single wide trailer when I was a teenager. Real role models, each of them, ain’t life grand.” He read the words aloud as he scribbled them down.

Nick wrote the date at the top of the page, clicked the eraser part of the mechanical pencil and slid the lead back into the tip. He closed the brown spiral bound notebook and inserted the pencil into the binding, ensuring that the pencil was secure and not going to fall out.

He reached his hand over to the .357 on the coffee table and wrapped it around the hard plastic grip.  The weight of the gun always caught him off guard. He extended his thumb up and over the hammer and slowly cocked the weapon. Oh how he loved that sound.  He smiled and put his finger on the trigger and with his thumb still on the hammer, slowly pulled the trigger and put the hammer back into its resting position. He moved the gun closer to his ear and pulled the hammer back once again. The sound was as sweet as Mozart.

He smiled again and turned his arm to the right. It was now pointed directly at the man sitting next to him. He didn’t even want to look at him, sniveling coward. It was 68 degrees in the house and this middle aged buffoon was sweating.  He shot the man in the face.

Nick laid the still smoldering gun back on the coffee table, picked up the bowl of popcorn and leaned back into the very comfortable couch. The popcorn crunched under his grip, butter and small pieces of each kernel stuck to the black leather gloves he was wearing. “Hum,” He thought to himself, “could use a little more salt.”

He sat the bowl down on the couch next to him and went to the kitchen in search of salt. The clock on the microwave said 2:32am. Was it that late already? He opened the right door of the stainless steel Viking refrigerator and pulled out a cold bottle of Heineken Light, reached into his jeans pocket, pulled out his keys with the trusty bottle open attached to them and popped the cap off the beer.

He took a swig as he returned the keys to his pocket and noticed the salt sitting on the counter. The still bound body of the stranger was slumped back on the couch as he reentered the living room, blood and pieces of brain still oozing from the hole in the back of his head.

Nick polished off the beer in one gulp and put the salt on the entertainment center. The look on the cowards face made him not want the popcorn anymore.  He put the now empty Heineken bottle in the inside pocket of his black jacket. He would dispose of it later, on his way home.

He picked up the .357 and slid it into his coat pocket, the handle barely fitting in the space.  Lastly he picked up his notebook and walked around the arm of the couch, standing directly over the fresh corpse. He turned the notebook upside down to the side labeled “TRUTHS” and opened to the first page. He had to flip through quite a few pages before he came to a clean one.

He wrote: “601 Las Mantra Hwy, 2:34am, middle-aged coward, head.” He pulled off the glove on his right hand and stretched his fingers out, then gently dipped his thumb in the still warm blood on the back of the man’s head. He just needed a thin layer. Then he made a finger print impression directly below and to the right of the entry he had just made. “Perfect,” he said to himself. Careful not to touch anything else, he slid his hand back into the glove. He brought the notebook up to his mouth and blew lightly on the fresh thumbprint until it was dry, then closed the notebook and secured it with a large rubber band.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. His stomach started to rumble. How time flies. It was much later than he had thought it was and he was getting hungry. He tucked the notebook inside the back of his pants, like the Hooter’s girls did with their black receipt books and zipped up his jacket.

Nick exited the house the same way he came in, through the back patio French doors. It was a beautiful late fall, south Florida night. He casually walked around the swimming pool. The pool was full of leaves and looked like it hadn't been cleaned in a month. He thought out loud, "Prick asshole. Huge inground pool and he didn't even appreciate it. I should have used a knife," and headed for the street. Denny’s sounded good or maybe one of those late night Mexican food stands he always passed on the side of the road. Just a quick stop at home to wash up and change and then he could feed his gut.

He whistled while he walked, thinking to himself, “Maybe a family this weekend. That might be fun.”