#ThursThreads Week 322 : It Was Up To Them

The police checked every hotel. Ever bed and breakfast. Every campground, park, parking lot, vacant house, empty building. They held the greatest manhunt anyone in town had ever seen. They found nothing. I had to chuckle about that. After all, I was a dead man. A man who didn’t exist. Encased in an armor that diffracted the entire electromagnetic spectrum, and rendered me invisible. I couldn’t be seen, or heard. Even their camera systems were of no help.

They went door to door through the entire town. Nothing. No one had ever seen the man in the picture from the video. They found no car. No motorcycle. No taxi use. Nothing.

As they searched, the internet went insane for a third day. This time, it showed those who wished Michelle didn’t exist, so they never had to deal with that thing, Michelle, again. How so many of them smiled, and laughed, and cheered when they found her mangled body that day.

“I’m glad she’s gone.”

“I don’t have to be nice to it anymore!”

“Now, I can use the women’s room again!”

Those words were why I’d come to their town. Why I’d acted. Why I would finish what I’d started. It was up to them, to their actions, to their deeds. They’d acted with violence, hatred, and intolerance.

I’d responded in kind.

And revealed their hatred to the world. Like the saying goes. Nothing on the internet ever really goes away.

243 Words
@mysoulstears

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The next part of the ongoing Armor 17 story. It’s Week 322 of #ThursThreads, hosted by Siobhan Muir. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are always fun to read. And there are some great writers who turn out weekly.

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#ThursThreads Week 310 : It Can’t Be Too Late

Case Street Fords had been a good car dealership. Small, but with a good set of cars on the lot, mostly SUVs and trucks. The service center was behind the sales building. One automated garage door, and room inside for six vehicles at a time.

The service center was on fire. The fire department hadn’t responded. A F-350 was pulling a dead body back and forth on the street next to the dealership. Men with guns cheered, “We got him! We finally got rid of him!”

The body had been Simon. The best mechanic in town. Everyone knew that. Simon had been shot in the leg, so he couldn’t escape. Then, beaten. Then, tied to the truck that was dragging him around.

Simon’s mate, Doug, was running down the street, heading toward the chaos, when I stopped him. “They’ll kill you.”

He screamed, he struggled, “Let me go! I’ve got to save Simon. It can’t be too late.” Doug collapsed to his knees on the asphalt. “It can’t be too late.”

“Stay here, Doug. Stay safe.”

The truck driver was the first person I shot. I kept shooting until none of the men with guns were left standing. Doug ran to Simon’s remains.

“I’m sorry, Doug. I was too late.”

There was an apartment complex I needed to visit. I hoped I wasn’t too late. If I was, well. “I am the violence. And the violence will respond. Will it ever.”

241 Words
@mysoulstears

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The next part of the ongoing Armor 17 story. It’s Week 310 of #ThursThreads, hosted by Siobhan Muir. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are always fun to read. And there are some great writers who turn out weekly.

#ThursThreads Week 309 : Answer Me, Damn It

I stopped at Shelly’s Diner, to find her inside, with her two daughters, hiding behind the counter. Shelly had called the police. The police hadn’t come. Angry men were outside, with their guns, getting angrier.

All it took was one of them, shooting out a window, and they all went nuts. Guns shooting everywhere. And one gun shooting back. One that didn’t miss. “Because, guns are clearly the answer to your problems.”

I left bodies all over the road outside the diner. My armor scanned the diner, to verify Shelly and her daughters were safe.

Outside was pure chaos. People were screaming, and running toward the bodies in the road. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” Police sirens suddenly started going off. Police cars arrived, and officers hopped out, guns drawn. There was no one for them to find. No bad guy for them to capture.

A woman across the road screamed, “We know you’re there! Somewhere! Why are you doing this! Why are you killing everyone! Answer me, damn it!”

Everyone stopped, and it became silent, when I displayed a hologram of Michelle’s brutalized body in the street. Next to it, another hologram, of Officer S. Morgan, sitting at her desk as she said, “A transgender victim? Nothing has been done yet.”

And everyone heard a voice whisper, “I am the violence. Now, something has been done.”

I moved on. There was a car dealership I needed to visit.

240 Words
@mysoulstears

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The next part of the ongoing Armor 17 story. It’s Week 309 of #ThursThreads, hosted by Siobhan Muir. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are always fun to read. And there are some great writers who turn out weekly.

#ThursThreads Week 306 : I Can’t See Anymore

I waited patiently for morning rush hour, knowing it was the best time to set chaos free. To respond to those who had used guns and violence the night before.

George was waiting patiently for the light to change from red to green when I shot the windows of his car.

Frank was driving on the city’s main street, heading to the warehouse outside of time, when the loud cracking sounds happened, and his tires went flat, and he lost control of his car.

Tom was turning left across the busiest intersection in the city, when more loud cracking sounds turned up, and the radiator of his heavy duty truck blew up, and the engine stopped working, and started making all kinds of ugly sounds.

Sam stood motionless wondering if he was still alive, on his front door step, the door, and the wall behind him full of bullet holes.

There were gas fires in kitchens with natural gas. Shatter glass windows in living rooms, bedrooms, and dens. Cars with flat tires, blown out windows, ruined engines everywhere.

Mark stood frozen in his doughnut shop as the windows imploded and the display case turn into a mass of glass, icing, and doughnut bits.

It was an escalation of the violence each person had participated in the previous night. “Violence grows. A peaceful ending. I can’t see anymore.” It was time to protect those I could.

And be vengeance for those I couldn’t.

242 Words
@mysoulstears

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The next part of the ongoing Armor 17 story. It’s Week 306 of #ThursThreads, hosted by Siobhan Muir. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are always fun to read. And there are some great writers who turn out weekly.

#ThursThreads Week 294 : I Will If You Give Me A Chance

At 0630 hours, they arrested Julia. She was putting on her makeup when they destroyed the door to her apartment, and charged in, without any warrant, without any legal reason. “You’re under arrest for assault on two white men.” The officer who spoke pulled a gun, and pointed it at her.

I threw the officer through the apartment wall. “No violence, children. No violence.”

Every gun was drawn, and searching. Trying to find me, trying to find where that voice came from.

“I’ve already said, if you hurt someone today. I’ll kill all of you.” The officers started shooting holes in the walls, ceiling and floors.

“Congratulations, Officer Scott. You just shot a man who was sleeping.” Officer Scott emptied his entire clip as he shot everything in sight.

“Congratulations, Officer Aron. You just shot a two month old baby girl, and her mother. Sitting at the kitchen table. Nursing.” Officer Aaron screamed as he shot everything.

“Gentlemen. If you will give me a chance, I won’t kill you.” They kept shooting at everything. One placed his gun against Julia’s head, and pulled the trigger.

I stopped them. Not because I wanted to. Because the shooting had to stop. There were enough innocent lives lost already.

The sound of my gun was deeper, louder. Officers Scott and Aaron stopped shooting. Officers Franks, and Simmons didn’t. I stopped them too. “For the needless murder of innocent civilians.”

“Next stop. Jail.” And there would be more dead bodies. That I already knew.

250 Words
@mysoulstears

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Yet another part of the ongoing Armor 17 story. It’s Week 294 of #ThursThreads, hosted by Siobhan Muir. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are always fun to read.

#AtoZ2016 : V Is For Violence

Define Violence.
Go ahead.
Define Violence.

I hear so many people say,
“When you shoot someone with a gun!”
“When you murder someone!”
“When you assault someone!”
“Violence! Like in the movies!”
“Violence like’s on TV every night!”

Classical,
Physical,
Violence.

And they always stop there.
At the physical.
At the classical.
At what they understand.
At what they’re comfortable with.

So they don’t have to change.

Define Violence.
Go ahead.
Define Violence.

Is it violence
When the father of three,
Who lives next door,
Shoves his dick
In the mouth
Of your 13 year old son?

It’s not physical,
No one got hurt,
There’s no blood,
There’s no bodies.

Is it Violence?

Is it violence
When the mother of two
Who lives three blocks away
Lets a man in her house,
Escorts him to her daughter’s room,
Takes $100 from him,
And say, “She’s all yours.”

It’s not physical,
No one got hurt,
There’s no blood,
There’s no bodies,
No one’s in the hospital,
No one’s in jail.

Is it Violence?

Is it violence
When the 16 year old boy
At school one day,
Gets called a fag?
Gets called a bitch?
Gets told people like him
Don’t deserve to live
In this world.
By his peers.
Both boys,
And girls.

It’s not physical,
No one got hurt,
There’s no blood,
There’s no bodies,
No broken bones,
No ambulance,
No cops.

Is it Violence?

Is it violence
When the 36 year old transgender woman
Shops for panties
In Walmart.
Finds what she wants.
Pays for everything.
And starts toward her car.

And gets shot in the back.
Because.
Transgender people aren’t people.
They’re evil.
Spawns of Satan.
Sexual predators.
They deserve to die.

It’s not violence,
Is it,
If they don’t exist.
If they aren’t real people.
If they’re slime.
If they’re evil.
If they’re sick.

If they’re not like you.

It’s not violence at all,
Is it.
If you don’t think anyone got hurt.
If you don’t think anyone died.
If you don’t see a need
To call the cops,
Or an ambulance.

Of course.
It would be different,
You know.
If it was your girlfriend
Who got shot.
And not some sicko.

Yeah.
That would be different.
Wouldn’t it.

Is it violence
When you walk into a church,
On a Wednesday night,
To pray.
And when you’re done,
You pull out your gun,
And shoot everyone you can.
Before you run.

Because.
You know the truth.
The people of that church,
They weren’t Christians.
They weren’t like you.
And they were ruining your faith.
Your religion.
Your God.

Is it violence
To fight back
Against the demons?
Those who would weaken
Your faith?
Corrupt you?
Cause you to stray
From the path God made?

Is it violence?

What is it when
The boy they called a fag.
The boy they called a bitch.
The boy they laughed at.
The boy they told day after day
How he should die.
And get it over with.
How the world
Would be better
Without him.

Swims into the ocean one day.
And never looks back.

Do you shake your head
And say,
“He was always sick.
And weak.
He should have gotten help.”
Because.
It’s no one’s fault,
What he did.

And he was stupid
For doing that.

Define violence.
Go ahead.
Pretend.
Make something up.
Hide from the truth.

Of this world you’ve made.

Make certain you define
Violence
In just the right way.
So you can believe
What you want.
And feel good,
Every day.

Go ahead.
Define violence.
Define it carefully,
To make it go away.

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It’s April 26th, and the A to Z Challenge for 2016 is in it’s last few days. Only 4 more letters to write stories for this month.

Please, go explore the A to Z Challenge, and the sites of others who are participating in this adventure.

#MidweekMusings 1×14 : Way Down We Go

“If Heaven and Hell exist, if God and Satan exist, then I know I am going to burn for the life I’ve lead, the things I’ve done, and what I will do before my time ends. Down is where we’re going. Way down.”

Carson O’Leary’s head rested on his desk, leaking blood and brains on the expensive hardwood. I’d shot him, killed him dead, in cold blood, eye-to-eye. “Nice to know I’ll see you there.” I left the same way I’d arrived. I waited for the door to open, and walked through. Unseen. Undetectable.

I am Armor 17. And O’Leary deserved far more than death.

The trail started in Peru, in the mountains East of Cedropampa, with a cell of the Shining Path. The cell received a special arms shipment from a man named Rafael Smith. Rafael received the four cases of AR-15 rifles from a shipping company in Bonaire. “Thor Shipping. Not even the worst storm can stop us.” Great saying. Always made me smile.

Thor Shipping received the cases from Amos Black’s Merchandise in Puerto Rico. Puerto Rico, where everything and everyone was going bankrupt, and you took money where you could find it. Amos Black’s received the cases from a couple of cigarette boats that headed south from Miami, through tourist stops in The Bahamas, Turks and Caico, and The Dominican Republic.

The cases were packed on the cigarettes in Miami at 0300 hours on a Sunday morning. A Ryder truck dropped them off. That truck picked up the guns near Carrizo Springs, Texas. Several Mexican Police near Piedras Negras, Mexico borrowed the guns from the evidence lockers of the police station.

Everyone along the way got paid. The police officers made enough cash to pay the ransom for their daughters. That cash came from a man named Thomas Champlain. Champlain got orders from a burner cell phone he received in the mail, from the US Postal Service, in Del Rio, Texas. A man named Sal Houston mailed the phone from Froid, Montana. Sal received orders to mail the phone, with instructions for its use, from a letter mailed from a post office box in Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania.

An administrative assistant named Cynthia Armstrong, mailed the instructions. She’d received a phone call from Kevin Holmes, in New York, New York, who’d received his instructions verbally from Carson O’Leary’s best friend, Owen Clark.

The money from the sale of the arms followed a reverse trail, ending at Carson O’Leary’s bank.

I was Armor. For us, there is no law. I followed the trail, verified who did what, who played what part. I documented everything with photographs on old-fashioned film. Film still worked in the US legal system. It couldn’t be faked as easily as digital images could. Of course I remained invisible, undetectable, contained in my armor during the entire search. I looked over Owen Clark’s shoulder as Carson O’Leary as he gave Kevin the orders about the guns. I watched Owen tell Kevin Holmes what to do, then watched Kevin call Cynthia Armstrong. I watched Cynthia write and mail the instructions to Sal Houston, and Sal place the order for the guns. I traced each step of the deal, from top to bottom. I did it twice, to make certain I knew every player involved.

Carson O’Leary was the head of the snake. To kill the snake, start with the head.

I watched him sit at his desk, smoking Cuban cigars all afternoon. I watched him fuck his secretary, who hated it, but liked the pay. I watched him plan his trip out that night, to the golf club, where two girl caddies would take care of him.

When he got ready to leave, I disengaged the armor’s cloak, and suddenly popped into existence. I can’t imagine what he thought, looking at a human shaped hole in the universe. The armor wasn’t black. It had no color. It reflected no light, like a black hole. And then, I spoke, and he got angry.

“Carson O’Leary. You’re guilty of arms shipments to Shining Path rebels in Peru. I also have evidence you’ve shipped arms to drug cartel units in Mexico, arranged the kidnapping for ransom, of multiple Mexican police officers as part of your weapons shipment process.”

“Who are you? What are you doing in my office!” He pounded on the alarm beneath his desk. “You’ve got some nerve coming here!”

I didn’t respond to his comments. I placed a packet of pictures on his desk, sealed in a brown, manilla envelope.

“What’s that?”

“You’re going down, Carson.” I shot him. In the face. “We’ll meet again, in Hell.”

It only took 20 seconds for the security forces of the bank to arrive at his office. The door swung open, and I calmly walked out, past four armed guards, and Carson O’Leary’s secretary.

All hell broke loose, of course. After all, the bank president’s brains were leaking out of his face on to his desk, and no one knew who killed him, or how. And then, there was the envelope full of pictures, which the police happily took into custody.

Another day on the job. Another dead body. Of course I still had to take out the rest of the players in the chain. I’d spare the Mexican officers, it wasn’t really their fault.

“It’s what I do. I’m Armor 17. I am the violence.”

892 Words
@LurchMunster

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For week 1×14 of #MidweekMusings, a flash fiction adventure hosted by #FlashMobWrites (Ruth Long and Cara Michaels). Please, go read all the stories for this week’s prompt.

#VisDare 108 : I See The Violence

#VisDare 108 Image – Photo Source

My innocence died when I was a boy, and saw my father punch my mother in the face the second time. My sorrow was born when the prettiest girl in high school couldn’t live with the shame of three football players having raped her, so she took an entire bottle of sleeping pills one night, and never woke up. My rage ignited in college, when the only girl I ever loved got shot by a guy with a gun because she wouldn’t sleep with him.

I saw the violence in life as I grew up.

I see the violence in life now.

Now, I answer that violence.

I have no name. I’m officially, legally dead. I can show you where I’m buried. Mother cried as they buried me.

I am Armor 17, one of many. An invisible, lawless, untraceable weapon. I am the violence, and these are my stories.

148 Words
@LurchMunster

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Another story I pieced together for Angela Goff’s Visual Dare, Week 108. Time to let a hidden demon out of me. Please read the other entries in this week’s Visual Dare challenge. Be amazed at the magic people can put into 150 words or less.

Violence

“Life doesn’t fucking care, does it,” Tyrone thought to himself, as he carried another load of dirty laundry down the stairs to the utility room. He tried to ignore the stabbing pain which lanced through his left heel, into his ankle, each time he put his left foot down. “The laundry has to get done, so fucking suck it up, cupcake.”

His stomach growled, as he poured detergent in the washing machine. “Yeah, I know. Hungry.” For all he cared right then, he could starve. He remembered what happened when he ate breakfast that morning, the sudden, desperate rush to the toilet. How his guts came out his ass. “If I’m gonna fucking die every time I fucking eat,” he looked at his stomach, “You can fucking starve.”

He carefully placed the whites in the machine, balancing the load equally in a circle around the agitator. “You know you have to do this right, or the damn machine will go crazy when it gets to the spin cycle. Ka-whacka! Ka-whacka! Ka-whacka! And it’ll move all over the fucking room.” He checked to balance on the load, making certain he had it evenly balanced. “No mistakes, stupid. No mistakes.”

Once the washer was running, he limped up the stairs and made a stop in the bathroom. He sat on the toilet again, “Just to be safe.”

While the load was washing, Tyrone found his MP3 music player, stuffed its earplugs in his ears, and used its menu system to select his housework playlist, which started with “Violence Fetish” by Disturbed. “It’s time to bring the violence to the fucking dishes!”

It was his day off. Sunday. He didn’t work Sundays. At least, not officially. Sundays, he had to take care of all the things he couldn’t get done during the week. Dishes. Laundry. Housework. Mowing the lawn. All that shit.

He dropped the glass he was rinsing. It fell into the stainless steel sink causing a hell of a racket. Luckily, nothing broke. “Butterfingers!” he silently screamed at himself. “Be careful, idiot!” He picked the glass up, making certain he had a firm grip on it, and finished rinsing it, then put it in the rack in the dishwasher. He felt the familiar sharp twinge in his right wrist from his damaged ligaments and bones. He grimaced, and wrapped his left hand around his wrist. In a couple of seconds the pain faded. “Enough.” He resumed washing the dishes.

He finished clearing the sinks, and filling the dishwasher. He turned the washer on, found a glass, poured some root beer out of a 2 liter bottle, and took a chug. “Back to the laundry.”

“Move this load to the drier, then start the pants.” He opened the drier, then the washer, and started moving the wet whites into the drier. Leaning to the side to throw stuff into the drier caused his head to hurt. By the time he’d finished the transfer, he knew he had a headache forming, “I don’t have time for that.” He tossed a dryer sheet in, slammed the door, and turned the dryer on.

He forced himself to keep moving, getting the load of pants in the washer, and getting that started. Then, he took his glass of root beer to the medicine cabinet, where he pulled out the bottle of naproxen tablet. He took 2. “No time for a headache today.”

He pushed himself to the Family Room, where he cleared the floor. Then he ran the vacuüm across the carpet. To make certain he’d vacuumed up everything, he emptied the vacuüm, then did the carpet a second time. “Fucking cat hair!” He looked at the half filled canister on the vacuüm. “I can’t win.”

The Living Room, Dining Room, and hallway all fell to the vacuüm. “There. That’s that.” At which point, the dryer’s buzzer called to him. “Time to fold the whites!”

It was his day off. His Sunday. Like all his Sundays. When he didn’t work. When he spent the day doing laundry, and dishes, and housework. “Life sucks, but no one said it wouldn’t. Suck it up, buttercup. You’ve got work to do.”

Tyrone didn’t stop until he’d folded the last load of laundry. That night, he sat on the sofa, in front of the TV, watching whatever was on. He didn’t really care what was on, he had a TV, and by God, he was going to watch something. Anything.

He knew the next hurdle. Bed. “I don’t want to turn out the lights.”

He wondered if there was anything inside him. Or if he was a machine, going through the motions day after day. “Bring the violence,” he whispered. “Bring the violence.” Soon, it would be time for him to go to bed, and get ready for work the next day.

“That’s what it takes to survive.” He knew the truth of his life. Of everyone’s life. “Without the violence, nothing happens.”

Before he went to bed, he played his favorite Disturbed song once again.

“So tell me what am I supposed to be
Another god damn drone
Tell me what am I supposed to be
Should I leave it on the inside
Should I get ready to play”

He turned out the light, and started his nightly battle for sleep.

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It’s April 26th, the 22th day of the A to Z Challenge 2015. This is the 22nd of 26 pieces I’m writing in April for the challenge. This one’s for the letter V. Tomorrow brings the letter W. I wonder what I’ll write for that.

#RaceTheDate : Muay Thai

Gluttony and Greed sat in the corner of the room. They were too lazy to stand. Besides, it was dark in the corner. The light from the TV didn’t reach them. The three male humans on the sofa didn’t know they were there.

“Oh, this is good,” Gluttony grinned. “Watching the fights, getting drunk, eating chips and queso.” He poked Greed in the ribs, “This is great!” He waved his arms at the three men on the sofa. “Look at them!”

Greed shook his head. “So like you.” He watched the TV screen for a moment. “Do you know what type of fighting they’re watching?”

Gluttony belched. “No. And I don’t care.” He rolled along the floor, stopping behind the sofa. “You boys deserve another round of drinks!” One of the men got up, and went to the refrigerator, returning with three more beers.

“These Muay Thai championships are fun! We should watch more of them!” he said, as he handed out the beers, and sat down. He and his buddies talked, as they watched.

“I wish I could fight like that.”

“Yeah. I’d make the boss shut up. Make him stop yelling at me.”

“Oh, and if we looked like them.”

“Bitches! Bitches everywhere!”

Greed whispered once again, “Keep watching.”

“Oh! That was a good one!” The three men cheered, as a foot met a nose just right, and drew blood. The victim’s nose had a nasty bend in it, with bone sticking out of its side. Cheering for more violence. More blood.

Greed let Gluttony enjoy goading the men to eat more, and drink more. Far more than they needed. “Let them enjoy their entertainment,” he thought. “They’ll pay for it soon enough.”

He smiled. “Oh, yes. They will indeed.”

293 words.
@LurchMunster

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A little story of the Demons I couldn’t resist writing for Cara Michaels‘s Race The Date flash fiction challenge. Hope you enjoy it. Please, go read the other entries in the challenge this week. I find it amazing the stories people can create in 300 words or less.