No Mercy for Lunatics
by
Adam Krause
Three hours in a shitty car, in the freezing cold, and not one fucking lead.
I secretly hate this job, and I hate the fucking lowlifes even more, but it’s the only thing that makes me feel like I’ve got a purpose anymore. I feel like a stray dog looking for scraps, and when I finally get a bite of something, it’s a piece of shit. That’s an analogy for my life, by the way, if you didn’t pick that up. If my partner Ricky was right, then our rabbit would be making an appearance soon, and we all know what happens when a dog sees a rabbit.
He chases it and tears it apart.
Nine weeks, four days, two hours and forty-seven motherfucking minutes. That’s how long I’ve been on this case, and besides the fact that this fucking lunatic knows who I am, the official, precinct evidence is worth two shits. Luckily this fucking maniac--Roberto as he addresses himself--has been giving me sneak peeks into his demented, murderous mind. This fucking clown isn’t even Mexican, or Spanish, or Italian or anything, but he insists on being called Roberto. Not only that, but he talks like a lazy, Southern son of a bitch. What kind of fucking reject pretends to be Mexican and Southern at the same time, and very poorly I might add? If you answered Roberto, then you’re fucking correct.
"Hey Shoe Man, what’re y’all experts up to now, huh?" he would say to me, in a shit-for-brains attempt to talk like a Southerner. What a total waste of fucking space.
By now, everyone’s heard the infamous claim that all serial killers mess up on purpose and secretly want to get caught, because it’s a cry for help. Well folks, that’s horseshit. Maybe some of the more twisted ones want to get caught, but I don’t care what these expert, forensic fucks have to say, Roberto doesn’t want to get caught. I should know, for Christ’s sake.
When a guy kills a cop, that’s like signing his life away. But when a fake Mexican shitbag by the name of Roberto murders a cop’s wife, that is entirely different.
Sure, she was committing adultery when he killed her, and so were all the other victims when he killed them, but that doesn’t mean jack shit. He liked to make the victims screw for him too, before he killed them. Fuck him, and fuck his modus operandi.
I didn’t even find out that Marie was getting special deliveries from the mailman until after they were both found dead in our goddamned bedroom with their faces and genitals slashed beyond recognition. He left a note that said, "Adultery is wrong." He also had stabbed both of them right in the hearts. How symbolic, Roberto, you fucking pussy.
Well that’s fucking dandy, Roberto, you find out my wife is cheating before I do, and then you have the nerve to punish her for it without me knowing either.
Maybe I sound like a cold-hearted prick, but that’s how you act when your wife of 18 years is that loose. The mailman wasn’t the first either, some fucking pussy called me after the murder was on television and apologized for banging my wife a couple times.
"Uhhh . . . Mr. John Schumann? . . . No! . . . I’m sorry Mr. Schumann, I didn’t know you were a cop, you made me do it, I didn’t know this would happen to her!"
He didn’t know I was a cop? Well, I didn’t know he was an asshole either, until he called. And what’s this shit about me making him do it? If there’s anything I made him do, it was shit his pants when I told him that I knew where he lived. Sure, my wife was a fucking whore and that ruined my life, but I still loved her, and on some level, I still hate myself for that. You would too.
Here I am, right where Roberto said he was going to be, right in the freezing street in front of where the victims-to-be live. In reality, the victims-to-be aren’t really victims at all.
Of course, as soon as I start cursing myself about Roberto, here comes a real fine-looking, young man, strolling towards the exact condo I’m watching. Is this Roberto? Could this be my rabbit? Fuck no. Just my luck, but I’m used to this bullshit by now. These adulterers--as Roberto is so fond of calling them--have been upstairs fucking each other’s brains out for the past hour, and no Roberto. Or so Roberto thinks. Really, it’s just my partner Ricky Lewis and another ambitious cadet, Sara Foster. The chief would kill me for this charade.
I’m starting to get anxious now.
Maybe Roberto is already inside? I would get severely reamed in the ass by the chief if he knew I was staking this place out without authorization, but this is more than official business. It’s personal. And anyway, the chief can fuck himself in the mouth with a hot poker as far as I’m concerned. This will be my last assignment anyway. I know that, and so does Roberto. This is it. Done for good.
I’ve got to get inside this place before these sexual escapades are over with, or Roberto will get to them first.
#
Well, well, Detective Schumann is right where I told him, and he hasn’t figured out what’s going on yet. Not that he’s exactly Dick Tracy or anything, but I figured that all my hints would have tipped him off by now, but so far he’s failed to see the obvious. He even failed to see the obvious when Marie was cheating, but I took care of that for him. Deep down, I know he’s thankful that I came out and did what I did. He would have been more miserable if I hadn’t, because he’s too weak to fall out of love with that adulterous tramp Marie.
Looking out the window now, I don’t see Detective Schumann in his car anymore. How the fuck did he manage that without me seeing? Christ, now I’m starting to sound like him, a sorry excuse for a Tourette Syndrome patient. Well, as he would say, fuck this bullshit. It’s now or never, these worthless fucks deserve to die, just like Marie and the mailman did.
"Please, just let us go buddy, something is really wrong," says the male adulterer to me. "We didn’t know you were the killer, man! Fuck! Get a grip, man, just calm down!" "I’m perfectly calm, Ricky," I say, reading his name off his police identification. "I can’t kill you two until Schumann gets here though, you know." And it’s true. Only Schumann and I can stop this madness once and for all, but I need Schumann here, and he’s a bit late. And to think, this victim is a cop. What an upstanding citizen.
The worst thing that can happen is for Schumann to find out who I am before I slice these fucks beyond recognition. But then again, I don’t think he can catch me without realizing who I really am.
The man looks at me, practically begging, and says, "Look, come on man, just calm down John, we’ll make sure nothing serious happens to you man, just put down the fucking knife!"
"Ricky . . . my name isn’t John, it’s Roberto." How dare someone refer to me as John. John Schumann is the enemy, and to think this coward has the nerve to refer to me in that way. I’m not the one tied up in missionary position in between some tramps legs begging for my life.
"Okay, okay, John, Roberto, whatever . . . look, you know me, you know my name, it’s Ricky! I’m your partner!" he says again, angering me now. "Don’t you remember!?"
I’d like to say that I do remember, but I don’t, and this man’s pleading is beginning to bore me. A nice gunshot wound to the mouth might silence him, so I move to him. His eyes reflect the gun as I point it at his face, his face drowned in sweat. I know Schumann is bound to show up.
Schumann makes me put the gun to my side now, and makes me walk over toward the window.
Until now, until I look into the reflection on the glass, I never realized just how similar Schumann and I look. The gun in my hand is now pointed at my head, courtesy of Schumann. We’ve got to stop this once and for all.
#
As I stood there holding Roberto’s gun to his head, it struck me odd that he should have a police issue pistol. I heard Ricky and Sarah pleading with me not to do it, but they knew better than to stop me. I would rather die than let that fuckface Roberto serve the time for his crimes, free of real punishment.
Then he spoke, saying, "Shoe Man, don’t do it man, shit!" His voice is what triggered it all, and the smell of Ricky and Sarah’s sweat in the air. I knew it now, and there was no denying it. Either way, I’m going to prison or the electric chair, killing Roberto would just make it complete. If my choice isn’t obvious by now, then let me make it perfectly clear with this single bullet for the both of us.
Goodbye Roberto, Goodbye John Schumann, Goodbye John "Roberto" Schumann, whoever the fuck I am.
God has no mercy on lunatics, and neither do I.