Tears of the Vicious
The bullets pierced his skull and sent him crashing down to the carpet in an instant, right next to the maid. Slater simply remained silent, staring at himself reflected in the eyes of his dead father. From there, reality ended and the nightmare began, the nightmare that would never end for those streets.
The thug holding the lethal weapon shook with fear, his mind racing with both adrenaline and terror. The next second, the only thing going through his mind was a bullet sent straight from Slater’s Glock 17. His fat buddy was next to go down, his kneecaps pierced instantly with vicious, precise shots before another two bullets knocked out his eyeballs, his brain slowly seeping out onto the kitchen floor. The two other guys ran to the living but only got half way until they were sent to hell with extreme vengeance, one crashing headfirst into the fine china set and the other slamming his head into the TV.
Driving home late one rainy night from a tough day working the streets of America’s meanest city, Det Martin Slater strolled into a hostage situation taking place in his kitchen. Five tattooed punks holding dear old Dad and the maid, Mel, at gunpoint. At first Slater co-operated and put his gun down, until Mel found a mess she couldn’t clean; her brain off the side of the fridge. Maybe it was the swearing or the shouting or fear of screwing up or just good old fashioned blood lust, whatever made that punk put the brain through Dad had unleashed the devil inside Slater.
He had to get revenge, starting at the bottom of the food chain.
A door had been flung open at the other end of the home. The last rat was trying to run into the gutter of the night. The rain belt down harder and harder as Slater rushed out into the rain and saw him fumbling at the wheel of his Impala. Slater raised his gun and shouted at him to stop, only for the thug to reverse hard into the busy street. His head was in his sights but this guy’s death wouldn’t bring answers; only pain and open questions.
Within a second, Slater made to his Dodge Charger SRT-8 police car before giving chase and radioing his partner, Steve Mason, an older detective and a good friend of the elder Slater.
“What is it?” he asked coldly, annoyed he was being interrupted.
“Dad’s been shot,” Slater said as he stuck the cop lights on the roof and kept hard on the guy’s tail.
“Oh my God. B-b-but he was a cop for twenty years. How did it happen?” his calm demeanour was gone and replaced with a sense of emptiness and sadness, evident through his shaky voice.
“Hostage standoff I think. I’ve got one of them on the run right now, just letting you know,” and with that, the conversation was over and Mason was left to wonder how it went down. Slater wasn’t one to dwell on the details or get melodramatic over what happened. Murders occurred every day in those streets and they were used to it. The only difference here was that this one was about the only person Slater ever cared about and that meant bodies were going to hit the floor bloody and bullet ridden.
The two cars weaved in and out of traffic at almost twice the speed limit. As the cars skidded around corners, Slater noticed the Impala was over steering like a truck on the slippery roads. Just a small nudge would leave it skidding all over the road, so Slater waited for his opportunity. He almost took it when the fleeing vehicle almost clipped a truck but it proved futile. A few seconds later, the Impala took a sharp corner way too fast, so Slater took the chance and rammed the Chevy, making it spin out of control and into a wall, totalling the car.
Slater grabbed the scumbag by his collar and threw him onto the pavement before breaking his leg with a mighty stomp, the bone letting out a violent crunch and the thug a violent scream. In an instant, Slater responded to his agony by shoving his Glock into his face.
“Why?” he gritted through his teeth. The only response was another scream by the bald idiot. “Answer, you son of a b*tch.”
“I’ll never talk,” and then the bastard actually managed to smirk at Slater, obviously not the right move to make.
“I can be very persuasive,” Slater growled as he lifted him off the floor and threw him against the Impala. His head was promptly sent through the window, glass impaling itself into his face. Another pitiful scream as the rain washed away the blood. The cop pulled him back outside and punched him hard across the chin, sending his remaining teeth scattered across the floor, before a punch in the gut sent him wreathing across the floor. Screaming pedestrians ran from the vicious scene of violence.
Slater then grabbed him by the head with his thumbs pressed against his bloodshot eyes. He let out one, simple word: “Answer!” still nothing, leaving Slater with no other option but to press down. Slowly, another scream let out through the night, this one even more blood curling than the last one. Yellow, sticky, crusty ooze seeped out of his eyes. When he let go, the eye sockets were nothing but black holes, staring into nothingness.
“I… I was…. Sent here by Rick Reiner… from the… Lucky Rabbit club… I don’t know anything else... I’m just small fry,” Slater let his grip go instantly and the body slumped to the ground, wreathing in pain. “Please, don’t kill me.”
“You are already dead,” and with that, Slater drew his gun and fired a stone cold shot into the victim’s skull, brain splattering the side of the car. Then he walked away from the carnage, to Rick Reiner and his club, to the answers he was looking for.
The night was just beginning.