“Things have changed, Georgy-boy,” the familiar voice in George Torch’s head taunted him. “Your girl don’t respect you no more. Probably she never did, but she feared you. And she trusted you in some sick, twisted way. She was yours. But she’s not anymore-- she’s not scared of you now, she’s doesn’t love you now, and she definitely don't trust you now! You showed your hand way too early-- way she figures there’s nothing worse you can do to her that hasn’t already been done, and she’s right, she’s totally right. You fucked up. You sold out your little girl for what, job security? Ha, ha!
“You blew it all to keep a job you fucking hate!” the voice continued. “And now she hates you. She’s a total slut, just like you always said, but she’s given up on wanting anything more. And when a person don’t want nothing, they don’t fear nothing. Hell, you even tried and took her money, and she just shrugged it off! She’ll fuck for her money, now, George! She said so herself! Your little girl has totally given up, and now she's just a little whore, just some plumbing to sell to assholes like your boss…”
“Shut the fuck up!” George yelled out loud. He was alone in his truck.
“Oooo, strike a nerve?” the voice, louder than ever, continued. “Don't like thinking about how you sold her out to your asshole boss, a guy you knew was twisted and fucked up? Don't like thinking you could do that, even to a stupid fucking slut like your daughter? That you could teach her how to be a whore?”
“Quiet, I'm thinking, shut UP!” he screamed again. George was snaking his truck down the late afternoon roads of outer Cleveland and his fists were clenching the steering wheel tightly. Images of his little girl, lying in her pretty pink bed so passively just moments before, repeated through his head.
“I’ll fuck you for free, still,” his daughter had told him.
He almost growled at the recollection. Things hadn’t turned out the way he’d wanted. He’d wanted to teach his daughter on how to be a “good” slut, a good, obedient piece of cunt. Instead he’d shattered her entirely when he’d sent her to see his boss. But why? What had happened? His boss must have done something horrible to the girl.
“Oh yeah?” the voice in his head mocked. “So it has to be that tub-of-shit’s fault, right? Not yours for sending her to him? You’re pathetic, George. You blame everyone but yourself.”
“Shut up, motherfucker,” George grunted through clinched teeth as he cut off some SUV driving son-of-a-bitch.
“Face it,” the thoughts continued, “you’re to blame for all of this. Amy might be a slut but a lot of teeny-girls are. Most of those girls grow up, too! They end up having good lives! But you, you? You got horny, you wanted to fuck someone, and you decided to fuck your own flesh and blood! And then you betrayed her. You sold her out to your fucking degenerate, asshole boss. And you never acted like a real father, never acted like a real man, you never acted like a real PERSON ever would!”
“Oh yeah?” George growled as he cut over two lanes toward his exit to Twinsburg.
Gritting his teeth, George hissed, “Maybe not. Shit, maybe not... maybe not before.”
Glancing over at the gun in the passenger seat of his truck, George almost smiled. “Better late than never.”
*****
George sat in the bay window overlooking the nice, calm suburban street of his boss’s neighborhood. Between two trembling fingers he held a lit cigarette. It’d been years since he’d smoked, since the war, actually. But he needed one right now and they'd been available.
Besides, this was also the first time since the war that his hands were coated with blood.
Across the street a cute little girl, maybe six or seven years old, was riding her bike. An older man, presumably her father, was watching from his yard, smiling and yelling out encouragement. George smiled. He remembered Amy at that age, learning to ride a bike. Had he taught her? he wondered. Maybe Mary had.
No, Mary never taught Amy shit. So it must have been him.
Then why couldn’t he remember?
The cigarette had burned down to the butt. George dropped it to the floor, and slowly stamped it out in the carpet. A pool of dark red, almost black liquid was snaking toward the smoldering ashes. He followed the pool to its origin.
The fat tub of shit was lying on his back. The blood was coming out of the holes George had shot into the bastard’s obese belly, and from the long line he’d cut into his fat, chinless neck afterward. The asshole had been dead the length of the cigarette. He was dead because…
Why? Why had he done it? He couldn’t be sure, even now, right after it’d happened.
And the voice in his head was silent, leaving him totally alone.
He’d been trapped in a blind rage, that he remembered. The fucking lard-ass had said something about his little girl begging to have a dog fuck her, the dog that he could now hear barking downstairs. The shit-head’s accusation had made George angry. The asshole had also threatened to fire George again and to tell everyone he was a pervert who recorded his daughter masturbating in secret. That, too, had pissed him off.
In the end, though, there really was no explanation. Maybe he could argue to himself that it’d been retribution for what the fucker had done to his daughter, but that was a lame excuse and George knew it.
No matter what this guy had done, George had done terrible things to the girl, too.
What had driven his rage when he’d barged into his boss’s home, brandishing a gun, had been the idea that his little girl had been ruined by this man. Ruined for him, at least. And so he’d threatened the fat piece of shit as the lard-ass’s family screamed and ran upstairs.
George had cut him with his knife across the asshole's cheek to show him he meant business, and then he'd demanded to know the truth. And that's when things got a little hazy.
The fat-ass had yelled and made his threats; George had yelled more and squeezed off a round or two. Then there was the cutting, the spray of blood, the gurgling of the fat man on the floor. And as quick as it'd begun it was over.
Now there was nothing but blood and dissipating cigarette smoke and some barking dog, off in the distance, as a girl outside rode her bike. George took another cigarette from pack that had fallen out of his boss' shirt during the struggle and lit it up.
Upstairs he thought he heard movement. The bastard's family was probably cuddled together in fear. They had nothing to fear now, though: George's rage was spent and all that was left in him was a quiet, lonely, depressing calm.
Suddenly George, who was just finishing his second smoke as the girl outside put her bike away, could hear the sirens coming. They were for real this time. They were getting close.
Ah, he thought with a sick grin. So this is how it ends?
Chapter Nineteen: Murderer
“Things have changed, Georgy-boy,” the familiar voice in George Torch’s head taunted him. “Your girl don’t respect you no more. Probably she never did, but she feared you. And she trusted you in some sick, twisted way. She was yours. But she’s not anymore-- she’s not scared of you now, she’s doesn’t love you now, and she definitely don't trust you now! You showed your hand way too early-- way she figures there’s nothing worse you can do to her that hasn’t already been done, and she’s right, she’s totally right. You fucked up. You sold out your little girl for what, job security? Ha, ha!
“You blew it all to keep a job you fucking hate!” the voice continued. “And now she hates you. She’s a total slut, just like you always said, but she’s given up on wanting anything more. And when a person don’t want nothing, they don’t fear nothing. Hell, you even tried and took her money, and she just shrugged it off! She’ll fuck for her money, now, George! She said so herself! Your little girl has totally given up, and now she's just a little whore, just some plumbing to sell to assholes like your boss…”
“Shut the fuck up!” George yelled out loud. He was alone in his truck.
“Oooo, strike a nerve?” the voice, louder than ever, continued. “Don't like thinking about how you sold her out to your asshole boss, a guy you knew was twisted and fucked up? Don't like thinking you could do that, even to a stupid fucking slut like your daughter? That you could teach her how to be a whore?”
“Quiet, I'm thinking, shut UP!” he screamed again. George was snaking his truck down the late afternoon roads of outer Cleveland and his fists were clenching the steering wheel tightly. Images of his little girl, lying in her pretty pink bed so passively just moments before, repeated through his head.
“I’ll fuck you for free, still,” his daughter had told him.
He almost growled at the recollection. Things hadn’t turned out the way he’d wanted. He’d wanted to teach his daughter on how to be a “good” slut, a good, obedient piece of cunt. Instead he’d shattered her entirely when he’d sent her to see his boss. But why? What had happened? His boss must have done something horrible to the girl.
“Oh yeah?” the voice in his head mocked. “So it has to be that tub-of-shit’s fault, right? Not yours for sending her to him? You’re pathetic, George. You blame everyone but yourself.”
“Shut up, motherfucker,” George grunted through clinched teeth as he cut off some SUV driving son-of-a-bitch.
“Face it,” the thoughts continued, “you’re to blame for all of this. Amy might be a slut but a lot of teeny-girls are. Most of those girls grow up, too! They end up having good lives! But you, you? You got horny, you wanted to fuck someone, and you decided to fuck your own flesh and blood! And then you betrayed her. You sold her out to your fucking degenerate, asshole boss. And you never acted like a real father, never acted like a real man, you never acted like a real PERSON ever would!”
“Oh yeah?” George growled as he cut over two lanes toward his exit to Twinsburg.
Gritting his teeth, George hissed, “Maybe not. Shit, maybe not... maybe not before.”
Glancing over at the gun in the passenger seat of his truck, George almost smiled. “Better late than never.”
*****
George sat in the bay window overlooking the nice, calm suburban street of his boss’s neighborhood. Between two trembling fingers he held a lit cigarette. It’d been years since he’d smoked, since the war, actually. But he needed one right now and they'd been available.
Besides, this was also the first time since the war that his hands were coated with blood.
Across the street a cute little girl, maybe six or seven years old, was riding her bike. An older man, presumably her father, was watching from his yard, smiling and yelling out encouragement. George smiled. He remembered Amy at that age, learning to ride a bike. Had he taught her? he wondered. Maybe Mary had.
No, Mary never taught Amy shit. So it must have been him.
Then why couldn’t he remember?
The cigarette had burned down to the butt. George dropped it to the floor, and slowly stamped it out in the carpet. A pool of dark red, almost black liquid was snaking toward the smoldering ashes. He followed the pool to its origin.
The fat tub of shit was lying on his back. The blood was coming out of the holes George had shot into the bastard’s obese belly, and from the long line he’d cut into his fat, chinless neck afterward. The asshole had been dead the length of the cigarette. He was dead because…
Why? Why had he done it? He couldn’t be sure, even now, right after it’d happened.
And the voice in his head was silent, leaving him totally alone.
He’d been trapped in a blind rage, that he remembered. The fucking lard-ass had said something about his little girl begging to have a dog fuck her, the dog that he could now hear barking downstairs. The shit-head’s accusation had made George angry. The asshole had also threatened to fire George again and to tell everyone he was a pervert who recorded his daughter masturbating in secret. That, too, had pissed him off.
In the end, though, there really was no explanation. Maybe he could argue to himself that it’d been retribution for what the fucker had done to his daughter, but that was a lame excuse and George knew it.
No matter what this guy had done, George had done terrible things to the girl, too.
What had driven his rage when he’d barged into his boss’s home, brandishing a gun, had been the idea that his little girl had been ruined by this man. Ruined for him, at least. And so he’d threatened the fat piece of shit as the lard-ass’s family screamed and ran upstairs.
George had cut him with his knife across the asshole's cheek to show him he meant business, and then he'd demanded to know the truth. And that's when things got a little hazy.
The fat-ass had yelled and made his threats; George had yelled more and squeezed off a round or two. Then there was the cutting, the spray of blood, the gurgling of the fat man on the floor. And as quick as it'd begun it was over.
Now there was nothing but blood and dissipating cigarette smoke and some barking dog, off in the distance, as a girl outside rode her bike. George took another cigarette from pack that had fallen out of his boss' shirt during the struggle and lit it up.
Upstairs he thought he heard movement. The bastard's family was probably cuddled together in fear. They had nothing to fear now, though: George's rage was spent and all that was left in him was a quiet, lonely, depressing calm.
Suddenly George, who was just finishing his second smoke as the girl outside put her bike away, could hear the sirens coming. They were for real this time. They were getting close.
Ah, he thought with a sick grin. So this is how it ends?
It just is not fair.
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