NOT SO QUIET LOVE

QUIET LOVE

PSYCHO KILLER
Qu'est-ce Que C'est?

It wasn't just the bad thoughts which kept Jimmy awake at night. Not this time at least; he had the motel's paper thin walls, and its adjoining occupants to thank for that. The rhythmic pounding of the head board and their ceaseless moans and grunts not only held sleep at bay, but also brought up memories of Lenore. Which, unfortunately, led to the bad thoughts.

Whiskey helped. But it could only do so much; Daddy's medicine would have to come in small doses. The last thing he needed was for his crutch to become a wheelchair, and if that happened, it wouldn't be long before they'd catch up to him. There was too much work left for that to be an option. But a sip here and there? Well, that never hurt anyone.

Pausing on the overpass, he listened to traffic below, thought about the previous night's events and cursed having to ditch his Buick Century. Not too flashy, but a smooth ride, it didn't garner much attention and, God, what trunk space!

He raked his fingers across the scruff on his chin, now more salt than pepper, and unscrewed the top from his hip flask. Squinting through the midday sun, he watched as some young punk approached, smoking a cigarette.

"Hey man, how bout passing that over here?"

Jimmy raised the flask to his lips, took more than what one might consider a nip, and cleared his throat. Not because the whiskey burned too much, but because it DIDN'T BURN ENOUGH. He eyed the youth standing before him, took note of the awkward way which he puffed on the smoke, and pinned him to be no older than fifteen. When Jimmy failed to respond, the punk took a final drag before stomping out the cigarette. He'd smoked less than half of it.

"You gonna hand it over Old Man? Or am I gonna hafta take it?"

The punk had a switchblade pointed at Jimmy, swinging it back and forth as he returned the flask to his back pocket. Jimmy thought back to his own childhood, comparing himself to the teen. In doing so, another memory presented itself; that of an article Jimmy read in some scientific journal.

Its author proposed that certain dog breeds had what he dubbed, "an over abundant growl dysfunction," which meant that, if an afflicted dog wasn't able to release a sufficient, natural, amount of growls in a given period of time, they would compound; this resulted in people being cornered by said animal for hours, sometimes days, as it let out all those pent up growls.

So it was with Jimmy, except for him it was the need to exercise his given right to MURDER. And, for the life of him, he couldn't think of the last time he was able to quench that thirst. How long had it been?

He raised his right arm, jiggled it, and looked at the watch on his wrist.

"Hmph," Jimmy said, "Two seconds till."

The youth, confused, asked, "Till what?"

"KILLTIME, MOTHERFUCKER!"

Jimmy knocked the switchblade away with his left hand, popped the punk in the nose with his right and, as he stumbled backward backhanded him again for good measure. The youth saw where this was going and turned to retreat, but Jimmy was faster.

He grabbed the punk by his collar and the belt on his jeans and with little trouble threw him over the railing. Jimmy then wiped his hands on his pants and continued walking.

It wasn't until he heard brakes squeal and glass shatter that he started to laugh.