“I can’t wait to come back tomorrow.”
Showtime.
I straighten my black leather jacket and throw my cigarette onto the ground. My feet are making their way toward the pig, and I’m not being quiet. The need to let him know that I’m coming for him is strong.
To destroy him is even stronger.
After a couple more steps, he notices me and turns around to face me.
When I look at his face, I can only think of one question.
When did men like him think it’s appropriate to hit on beautiful women like Lana?
“Buddy, are you going to say something? Or are you just going to keep staring at me?” His words are coming out of his mouth in shorter bursts. This asshole doesn’t even have the strength in his voice to make me slightly tremble.
But what he is doing is making me angry.
Not to spoil any surprises, I plaster on a smile.
“Do you like going to this diner?” I ask him while pointing to it. He furrows his brow and crosses his arms.
“Why do you care? Who the fuck are you?”
“You love answering questions with questions?” Isn’t it socially decent to just answer a fucking question?
“I’m tired, so I’ll be leaving. I don’t have time for freaks tonight.” Just as he is about to leave, I check my surroundings one more time, and we are safe from prying eyes. The alley is dark, long, and the people behind us are oblivious to what is about to happen.
“Nenad, unmarried, lives alone on Mustafa Street, door number 128. You inherited your home from your late mother after she battled a long fight with cancer. Let me ask you this: how many times have you visited her in the hospital? One time? Two times?” The revelation that I know so much about him makes him stop in his tracks. His back is still turned to me, but I can feel his anxiety.
It’s like a drug that is fueling the beast inside of me.
Some people thrive on success, whereas I thrive on fear.
I laugh, genuinely, and make atsksound.
“What? No questions right now?” I’m still looking at his fucking back, and I’m getting agitated. I want him to look at me, because I want him to remember the face that will haunt him in his dreams.
“Look. At. Me.” He doesn’t turn around fully, but peeks over his left shoulder. “Are you seriously not brave enough to face me?” He shakes his head slowly, as if the ground has taken his feet hostage.
“I’ll make this easy for you. Here.”
I draw the pistol from my waistband and toss it onto the floor. It splatters against the melting snow.
He finally turns and snatches it up.
I cock my head and yawn.
“How the fuck are you holding the pistol?”
I’ve seen people handle guns before, but this is ridiculous. His fingers aren’t even on the trigger—he’s gripping the barrel.
This is so embarrassing.
I shake my head, and my lips form a thin line.
“I’ve given you plenty of chances. Now it’s my turn to show you.” I’m standing so close to him that my own gun is now touching my chest. My hands reach the weapon, and I snatch it from his incompetent grip.
“Our game ends here. Let’s take this party elsewhere.” Before he can even react, I pistol-whip him. His body thuds onto the ground, and I kneel beside him. I check for a heartbeat, and luckily, it’s there.
