Warpath

I mostly keep guns in mine.

The name mine is under belongs to some dirt ball that I know to be very dead. The rest of the world might still think he’s out there kicking around. Actually, I really hope so. Because if the place was ever found it’s my sincerest hope the cops go looking for him. The guy had a couple of weapons charges on his record and he associated with folks who used guns, so it all looks like a good enough red herring. I guess.

I make deposits and withdrawals from the unit in heaps. I wipe down anything that goes inside the unit to make sure there are no fingerprints whatsoever, let alone mine. After the wipe down I wear gloves until the transaction is complete. I canvas the area thoroughly before I go inside. Then, it’s all get in, get out.

Tonight I go. Key in the lock. Slide the door up. Rummage for a moment. Get the stuff; drop off the weapons from Moss’s and Phat Urban. Leave. Time to finish the prep work if I’m going to get carjacked tonight. Excited that I get to shoot a fully automatic weapon.

22

0127 hours, Friday morning

I don’t want to do this in my own car.

I listen to the police scanner for nearly an hour while I double, triple and quadruple check my gear. Finally, a noise complaint worth perking my ears over. Four calls altogether of various neighbors saying there’s a party next door that is too loud. Too much ruckus. Too many people. I know the neighborhood they’re talking about. The cops can stop by and say something but it will do no good. If SAPD does anything besides drive by and be seen I’ll be blown away. The neighborhood is south of the river and rough like a poor Mexican town on a drug trafficking route. Police presence will not bring control. It’s only punks looking to make names for themselves by fucking with cops.

I go there. Circle the neighborhood twice, making a selection. Sure enough, a house party is lighting up the whole block. Hip hop blasting. Beers. Smell the ditch weed in the air. Obnoxious laughter. Loud chatter competing with louder chatter, all peppered with vulgarities, big words used incorrectly and the occasional bottle being broken.

Park down the street, facing away. The car I want is three behind me. The house party is good camouflage. No one will notice my car in a sea of cars. Four more wheels and rust added to the mountain range of hoods, cabs and trunks that create a subtle crest and trough between the street and the ramshackle homes. No one will notice the car I’m stealing until I return it. Bullet holes and all.

Slim Jim inside. Lucky for me the steering column is already broken off. I hotwire it in under ten seconds. Bag of tricks beside me, my new sled and I ease out into the street. Half a block down I turn on the lights. I spark a Rum Coast cigarette and get comfortable. The intersection of Baltimore and 42nd is twelve blocks south.

The area is perfect for this.

Baltimore Boulevard, like most boulevards in Saint Ansgar, runs north to south. It’s miles long and on the west side of the city near the waterfront. From about 35th to 48th is all industrial park, in varying shades of use and disrepair.

Brick structures, industrial, broken windows, concrete

steps leading up to concrete stoops. Graffitied stop signs, stolen street signs; empty metal poles standing watch over intersections with no names now. Urban decay.

I figure most people, when they find themselves in an industrial park that feels so quiet it can only be a set up, they either turn around and head back to the first place where they remember life or they gun it through. No stopping. So I stop at every intersection. Complete cessation of movement. Chin to shoulder, looking down both cross streets. I’m a model driver.

South on Baltimore I get to 40th. Hushed and still, not even the susurration of the waterfront wants to be heard here. At 41st I check my gear for the final time even though that’s all I’ve been doing tonight. Crowd control-sized pepper spray cannon. Check. Silenced, fully automatic Glock 19 with a fifty round drum magazine and grip stock. Check.

Carjackers, come out, come out, wherever you are.

Baltimore Boulevard and 42nd street. I pull up to the intersection and slow down, stop. As soon as I do some old ’80s sedan comes flying out of nowhere on my left. Slams to a stop right in front of me. The car is more of a boat, up on a lift kit with golden spoke rims. It blocks the entire intersection. I expected the windows to roll down and gun barrels to emerge, but they do not. Excellent. This is a firsthand example of complacency. By the time they get those windows down to shoot it’ll be too late.

A lone thug comes strolling from a shadow, cigarette dangling from his lips. Turd has a pimp walk, extra-large jacket, flat-brimmed ball cap cocked off to the side. Early twenties. The mouthpiece for this shitshow.

Turd moves with the confidence that if anything starts to happen to him, the car will squash it. But, unless the fuck-faces inside that hooptie are willing to blow out those midnight-tinted windows in an effort to shoot me first, I’ll be winning this evening.

I’m anxious to get this started. The smell of the rubbing alcohol and diesel fuel I brought with me inside is getting to my sinuses.

I position myself. Turd gets to the window, hands in pockets and leans over at the waist to talk. Thank you for offering your face. I start to roll the window down.

He says, “What’s up?”

“What is up?” I ask as I raise the pepper spray cannon.

Blast off. A cone of aerosolized devil spit hoses this thug queef up and down his fuck-ugly face, fake diamond grill and all. The liquid hurt mask digs under his lids, crawls up through his nose to the back of his throat and layers the inside of his mouth thick enough to steal the breath from his soul. It’s all fire and claws hugging his mug. He falls back and I’ve already got the Glock 19 tucked into my shoulder, aiming at the hooptie.

This isn’t my car so I don’t give a shit. I point the barrel at the windshield and press the trigger back. Bullets cough out and before the thugs inside the car get their windows rolled down they get showered in lead. I sweep the gun across the passenger side windows and then lower it to the doors for a pass. A ballet of shattering glass and rippling metal bring the car to life as the thing transforms from a hulk of the ’80 s to a block of Swiss cheese. The chamber clicks empty and I drop the magazine. Load the second one. Exit the car. Charge the hooptie from behind; come up driver’s side. Spray it. Yank the driver’s side rear door open. Four dead.

I move. Turd is rolling around in the street. Exquisite torment. The spray awakens every alarm klaxon in the human body.

Indians—dots, not feathers—have weaponized the ghost chili. That’s what I have here. It’s no longer the hottest chili in the world, but it’s hot enough to make an atheist beg God for relief as he shits himself empty and writhes in agony.

I brought a one-gallon jug of water. That’s not nearly enough to alleviate the pain of standard pepper spray, let alone this new excursion, but splashes of water will be cruel teases that may coax out answers.