A long time ago, I made a promise to myself never to fall in love again, never to let myself feel anything toward another person, ever. I promised that I would forego all emotions and become a stoic devoted, not to existence, but to the destruction of the human race for destroying those people that meant the most to me, my family and friends. My name is unimportant now, for a name is a human characteristic, and I have had to evolve above and beyond humanity and its frailties, specifically emotions, including love and pity and, yes, even hate, to become a biological "machine," capable of the kind of death and destruction found previously only in that ancient work of fiction known only as The Bible, or The Book. My new existence has been modeled after one of the characters in that book, one who lost a son, one who lost his works of art, one who lost his friends. That character was called, in the various languages, Yaweh, Father, God. My human name is no longer of any concern. My specific enemies, however, have given me a name. That name is Lucifer.

The World Crime Consortium was established in the late Twentieth Century for the "common good" of all existing organized crime "families." In essence, one family was better than twenty, or twenty thousand, or however many there were. The United States Government had taken drastic steps to counter organized crime on the battlefields of the cities by authorizing law enforcement officers to use, first, ordinary automatic weapons, then, later, the latest in combat automatics and assault arms. It was a necessity in order to stay alive on the streets.

Unfortunately, the government did not authorize the use of these weapons to civilians. I used to be one of those, a "civvie." God, how I hate that word. There are no civilians any more. There haven’t been for decades. But they are fighting back, through me. My wife and three children were out shopping in Lennox Square Plaza when a crack dealer ran through the mall being chased by law enforcement officers. He had an Uzi III given to him by his boss. The law enforcement officers had Cobra II assault rifles capable of a hundred rounds per minute with a two hundred round clip, each round capable of exploding through the best bullet-proofing. The idea behind that kind of artillery was overkill. My youngest, my only son, four, was walking to a toy store in front of my wife and two daughters. He "got in the way" of the crack dealer and was shot down by four rounds of hollow-point ammunition. There wasn’t much of his body left to bury. When the dealer opened fire, so did the law enforcement officers. There were three of them. One hundred and fifty-three rounds were spread in the general direction of the dealer in order to prevent him from murdering any other "civilians." The fact that fifty-two of those shells went through the remainder of my family -Jessica, my wife, and Jenny and Jessica, my daughters, leaving nothing to be buried- seemed to make no difference to them. The crack dealer got away. No charges were brought against the officers. I was not allowed to file, either. I then took my charges to the street.

In 1975, I was finally rescued from a Viet Nam prisoner detention center by a special forces unit sent in by Gerald Ford, following the advice of Richard Nixon. I had been there for five years. I had trained with the regular Army after being drafted. I lasted two months before being captured. The next five years were hell. Maybe my new name fits me after all.

Anyway, I began my own fight that evening, 8 May 1988. With my .38 in my shoulder holster and my bulletproof vest under my coat, I hit the streets. It took almost no time to find the dealers. They hang out now where they did then- Peachtree Street. Finding the dealer was the problem. I made some talk with several prostitutes and got an address in the north suburbs of the city, the rich section. I drove there.

Surrounding the house was a very high, very ornate, very pretty, and very electrified fence. I didn’t care. Not much will stop a Peterbuilt, not even an iron fence. Too bad about the lawn, though. It was manicured when I drove across it, kind of like what a golf green looks like at six in the morning before the golfers get there to destroy it with divots and poor putting. The bullets that several guards shot at me didn’t slow me down, but they did put a few more holes in the lawn. There were no parking spaces big enough for the truck in front, so I chose the front hall. Needless to say, there was no one there to greet me.

Stopping the truck and pulling off my coat, I felt the old training of an Army hunter coming back. In Nam, that wasn’t enough, but in a mansion, it was plenty. I found several people cowering in the kitchen. I didn’t ask their names. Their tombstones say something like John Makersfield, Glenda Newberry, and Mark L. Johnson, IV. I didn’t care. I replaced the three bullets. I wanted a full clip when I found him.

There was a noise from upstairs. I waited downstairs. There was more. I waited. There was silence. I waited. There were footsteps. There was silence. I waited. There was a creak on the stairs. A shoe appeared on the landing; that’s all I could see. Another followed it. The two shoes walked to the stairs cautiously. A head peeked over the railing. He didn’t see me. He came down a little further. He didn’t see me. A little further. He looked dead at me. I looked back at him. His eyes were deep blue, like Robert Redford’s when he wore his contact lenses. His hair was still styled, the styling mouse holding strong. At the moment, I thought they could have used him in an ad. He raised his gun, the same Uzi III. I raised mine. He hesitated as he tried to say "Who are you," but it only got so far as "Wh-." My shot went through his forehead, dead center.

I left the truck; it wasn’t mine. I called a cab from the convenient store down the street and took it to the MARTA station. I took the train back to the city. I still had some business to attend to. I found it touring Peachtree Street. Atlanta Metropolitan Police car number 254 was stuck in traffic due to an accident. Officers Kane, Gonzales, and Lukes were directing traffic around the demolished vehicles. There was a multitude of people -prostitutes, pushers, pimps- watching, waiting, wondering what would be next. Bang. Bang. Bang. Three shots, quick and simple, then into the MARTA station with the rest of the crowd. We took the first train to anywhere. I lost my gun in a trashcan. End battle one: Bad guys zero, the good guy four.

Since then, I’ve settled into my new job at Z-Tech Designs in Alabama fairly well. I design guns and assault weaponry during the day and attend classes at Auburn University at night, learning all I can about transportation engineering. I need vehicles. I borrow what I need from a local used car dealership, but most of those aren’t much good after breaking through a fence. I need weapons. I design and build what I need at Z-Tech. I need information. I steal what I need using Auburn’s wonderful computer networking systems. I need nuclear materials. I haven’t figured that one out yet, but Georgia Tech has a working reactor on-line for three-quarters of the year. That’s a start.

Oh, one more thing. The World Crime Consortium is looking for a new Southern Region executive. Interested?

Howard Scott
8 May 1988