My eyes are open to this poison of humanity; aware, unlike the majority.  I observe the scum and filth that inherit our planet.  The dregs of modern day society.  Like insects, they corrupt any essence of existing purity.

Identify me as you desire: murderer... psychopath. Watchman.

Forget that, it doesn't matter.

I advise him to lie upon the asphalt.  Kiss it.  Say goodbye, as this is your final moment on Earth.  Inhale this last breath and savor it in your lungs.  Taste it with the consideration that in a few seconds the asphalt is going to be caked with your blood.

In the end, we all die vulnerable.

He begs, as they all beg.  Why is it when one exposes a firearm in the proximity of another's visage, they immediately presume you crave currency; a popular misconception that is anything but flattering on my behalf.

“Please,” he mumbles between nervous twitches of fright, “just take my money.  I don't want to die.”  Blah, blah, blah, blah, eventually it all rings similar.

“I don't want your money,” I inform him, “what I want can't be seen on this plane.”  Leaning in, my lips almost caress his left earlobe.  “I want your soul.”  The words roll off my tongue with a confidence that can only be obtained after years of practice.

Believe me, I have had practice.

My understanding is that in this generation of countless beliefs and religions, programmed television sitcom reruns, consumerism, and most of all money-- the green plague-- matter naught in comparison to the human essence.  After all, it is the sole object you bear with into oblivion.

And if you eradicate one of the countless sheep grazing about, he has to be your slave in the afterlife.  You could say I'm building an army of tainted souls.

They had their chance, like everyone else.

“I'll permit your exit,” he listens intently as I lie to him, “if you tell me a story.”

This is my routine the first of every month.  I pull a specific someone with a briefcase full of skeletons into a darkened, dampened alley way and press my customized Colt with the attached PVC pipe for a sweet sound of homemade silence to the back of their head, “tell me a story.”  Many outlaws along these avenues have heard those four damning words.

On occasion I check either end of the alleyway for any sign of a threat to my campaign.  Maybe I will get caught this time.  Eventually we all get caught.

“I... listen, my name is-”

My grip tightens.

“No!  I decide your name.  In this story, your name will be... Robert.  Robert Carney.”

He takes a moment to gather his thoughts before calmly answering, “I don't know what you're expecting from me.”

“Explain yourself,” I counter.  “Why you've exploited specific expectations.”

“What -- I haven't done anything!”  His attempts to face the shepherd fail miserably.  My shooter holds him hostage to the ground.  Claustrophobia instigates anxious convulsions in his arms and legs.

“Dig deep, Mr. Carney.  What haunts you?  What keeps you awake at night?”

“I guarantee you, my conscience is clean.”

My Colt travels down his jaw line for a better vantage point in the sheep's limited frame of sight, which includes asphalt and increasingly more asphalt.  Right now he is probably noticing the absent serial numbers, or the caliber of weapon which leaves large gaping exit wounds and will surely locate its predetermined destination.

Strangely, while observing him assess the situation, I find myself pondering how the precipitation must be irritating his skin.

“Voicing this confession is the only way to achieve true enlightenment.”

Before anything sensible exits his mouth, he begins to weep.

***

Midnight reveries of a reality dissimilar to our own, where innocent offspring sing and dance under a full moon of hope.  A grandiose palace of crayon crafted architecture.  Smiles are a common sight for the wonderfully extroverted community of No Bullies Allowed.  Children are taught to love each other unconditionally despite differences in ethnicity and gender.  These obstructers of harmony are accepted in little Anna Carney's dreamland.

Anna sprawls across a mattress too large for a nine-year old girl.  An enormous smile spreads across her face as these nighttime illusions of the subconscious play games of deception upon her.  Everything is silent in the Carney residence.  Not a creature dare stir, not even a mouse.  As the wolf has a predilection for violence amongst his many formidable pleasures.  Anna's door opens with a groan, bringing with it a glow that pours in, illuminating every orifice that once held secrets now appears serene and undisruptive.

Good things never last.

Trepidation returns as a stranger shrouded in shadows casts darkness over the room.

Standing in the threshold is the wolf known as Robert Carney.

***

Returning to my customary stature, I unwind for a moment as does Robert.  Maybe he truly believed me.

“Sit up.”  My order is veiled as a kind gesture that he quickly follows, sitting with his back against brick.  A cruel joke, I know.

“This has been one hell of a day,” he pulls a cigarette from his inner coat pocket, laughing at his current situation.  Giggling like a lost schoolgirl who finally found her way back home from the scary woods.

He is the monster, not me.

I allow the Colt's hammer to drop.  Despite the icy torrent hammering down upon us, the shooter itself is ablaze in my hand.  He starts in again with the babbling, the begging.  The sobbing and crying for a savior whose back has been turned to him since birth.  Now he wants God.  Now he wants religion.

“You said I could leave!  You promised!”

I reassure him.  “You will; permanently.  Your body, in all its malevolence, must expire.  Your tainted soul... is now mine.”  And in the middle of his cries, a bullet costing no more than forty cents well spent cuts through him like butter.

Silence... silence is all that follows.

Pushing aside my protective cloak, I holster my weapon which rests snugly beside the insignia marking me as an official keeper of the peace and upholder of the law.  People cannot possibly comprehend the necessity of what I accomplish.  Their clouded observation of the world consists of merely black and white.  Sometimes there are moments in our beautiful existence that requires one form of evil to topple another.  Me, I am that lesser evil. I am the grey. Off in the distance, a ruckus shatters through my thoughts and carries me back to reality.

Remember, act normal.