�You�re only making this worse,� I mutter, no longer caring if he hears. I�m already going to be punished for my earlier transgressions. Nothing can save either of us from his wrath.
�You�re not the killer they say you are,� the nameless hunter informs. �I read your case file. Your real file.�
The Killer found himself admiring this young man�s guts. It would be such a shame to kill one so bright. But no amount of intelligence could save him now. �I don�t know what you mean.�
The �whacker grins now, knowing � or at least thinking � that he has the beast right where he wants him. �You didn�t ice your entire crew. Even despite his horrible childhood, little Simon called out his superiors for their alleged crimes against humanity.�
Color momentarily rises to his cheeks, but it�s so quick that neither the �whacker nor myself can be sure that it was ever there to begin with. �Killing innocent women and children for fun? There�s nothing alleged about that, you asshole.�
�The Bureau denies any illegal activities ��
The Killer throws his head back and laughs heartily. Anyone who might have happened by at that moment would have seen what appeared to be two old friends catching up on lost time. Riddick, however, knows the truth. The bushwhacker knows the truth. But more importantly, I know the truth, and that is what damns me.
�They trained me to be a killer,� he laughs, with absolutely no trace of humor. �But even I had to draw the line at using children as target practice.�
�Oh,� the �whacker mocks, �the killer has a soul!�
�Fuck you,� the Killer snarls. He has no soul; nothing can redeem him. A soul only exists within those who give a damn.
I watch with growing horror as realization dawns on me. He is going to drag this one out. The �whacker�s death will be slow in coming, and before it is blessedly over, the young man, barely out of his teens, will be begging the Killer to finish what he started. I hate it when he does this. Killing in self-defense is one thing. I can buy the survival of the fittest theory. But killing for sport, as he plans on doing, is cruel and unusual.
�Don�t piss him off,� I moan, wishing just for once that I had the courage required to stand up to the killer. Why can�t I make myself be heard? I already know that he won�t kill me. He can�t. We, the Killer and I, agree on a few key points � we both detest the traits that make up my personality. I am the polar opposite of the beast. While he exemplifies all that is wrong in the universe, I once strove to embody all that was good. But no one will see that when the time comes to pass. They will only see a weakling who stood by and bore witness to countless murders.
I am just as guilty as him. While I don�t kill the victims by my own hand, I stand by and let it happen. But that wasn�t always the case. I had tried to intervene once and suffered dearly for it. I am a quick study, but that doesn�t make it right. That doesn�t make my silence right. At the hour of my death, which I pray is soon in coming, there will be no absolution.
�The way I see it,� the �whacker says, �you�re nothing more than an over-rated pussy.�
He roars then, and it�s a frightening sound. But amazingly the young bounty hunter remains unaffected. He knows the buttons to press, and for the first time, I find myself wondering if perhaps the Killer might be bested. No one dares insult the beast�s ego.
�I�ll make you pay for that,� he enlightens.
If the �whacker keeps pissing him off, his death may be quick in coming. All the foreplay will disappear as pure rage takes over.
�That last guy you killed,� the man says, �was a friend of mine.�
�Am I supposed to feel pity for the idiot? Should I mourn the loss of one more asshole?� the Killer challenges.
Knowledge that the last one, a man named Wayne Bishop, was a friend of this guy only adds fuel to the fires already burning deep within him. Bishop managed to leave a mark before he was forced to execute him.
�Personally, I don�t care what you feel,� the �whacker says easily.
I try to tune it all out, to disappear behind a wall of apathy, but I can�t retreat. The Killer knows all my tricks and is attune to my every move.
He draws his shiv quicker than even I think possible. For the first time, fear flickers across the �whacker�s eyes. �Then we agree on something.�
The young man struggles to regain his control, but a fine sweat has appeared above his top lip; he nervously licks it away with a quick flick of his tongue. �You gonna tell me about the sweet spot now?�
The Killer bristles noticeably. This guy must have the handbook that explains all the surefire ways to piss the man off. He thinks about doing the man in, but something inside him stirs and begs for control. The beast wants to play. He wants to make this asshole suffer. A sickening smile spreads across his face as he comes to the conclusion I have already reached. Torturing this man to death will also serve to punish me.
My little outbursts, combined with the merc�s defiance, have condemned him to a brutal demise.
The �whacker�s eyes are trained on the shiv he can see, never pausing to think about the weapons he can�t see. The Killer leers at the man and takes a leisurely step forward. His shined eyes flash brilliantly, drawing the other man�s attention away from the weapon. He looks into his killer�s eyes, and it finally hits home.
He won�t be bringing the infamous murderer to justice. Instead, the Killer will be doing him in. He will die at the hands of a psychopath. He will die.
�Fuck the sweet spot,� the Killer whispers. Even at a whisper his voice is deep and gravelly, sending tremors down my spine and down the merc�s as well, I�m sure.
I wish I could close my eyes, shut myself away from this depraved indifference. I wish I could go back to when I knew freedom, but it has been so long. So long. I can�t even remember how long I have been his zombie. I�m alive only because he allows me to live. The things I have seen haunt me and will haunt me even after my death.
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