Chapter 1: Scum of the Fucking Earth (Kane) - Once I Find You

“What’s wrong, shithead? Nothing to say now?” I pull my hands back, the garrote wrapped around his throat digging in as he tries his damndest to scratch at his neck to relieve the pressure.

I fucking love when they plead and fight for their life.

“You want me to stop, huh?” I mock loudly in his ear, and all he can muster are continued gasps. “Did you stop? When you heard her crying and begging, did you fucking stop?”

He knows now. He knows he’s fucking dead, and he hasn’t got a chance. He knows who I am and why I’m here. If he didn’t before, he does now. It doesn’t take much longer until he finally gives, and I pull the wire tighter for good measure.

“I didn’t think so.”

I finally release his neck, letting his lifeless body collapse to the asphalt.

Hmm…I guess I’ll just leave him like this. I didn’t plan on leaving behind such a mess, but I guess it makes no difference as long as I pour some bleach on him.

I walk back into his home from the back entrance and rummage underneath his kitchen sink. Ah, there you are. When I walk back into the backyard, his body is still laying awkwardly beside his shed. I take the bottle and pour the bleach over his neck and hands to make sure no trace of me is left behind.

Because God knows, I am fucked if there is. I’m the most wanted man in the tri-state area. And it’s not just the fucking cops. Those goddamned internet sleuths are on my ass. I swear, there are over a dozen Facebook and Reddit pages dedicated to “unmasking” me. To figure out what kind of man I could be.

Am I a good man because I kill pieces of shit who deserve it?

Or am I a bad man? Because the truth is, I fucking enjoy it.

I’ve never pretended, even to myself, that I’m right in the head. Maybe I lost my shit somewhere between Afghanistan and losing Sadie…

But it doesn’t matter. Even if my life goes to shit, I can go down saying I’m the man who took out the evil that plagues our society. Even if this makes me a bad man, I wouldn’t give a fuck. I’m doing what everyone else is too scared to do.

I load myself back into my pickup truck, tossing my leather gloves on the passenger seat as I start her up.

The inner city is quiet tonight; actually, that seems to be the norm nowadays. I won’t boost my own ego by saying I’ve personally lowered crime, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I’ve contributed to it. They know I'll come for them now, and that I’m capable of taking them out quietly, one by one. I don’t give a shit about petty crimes, or drugs—that’s never going to stop.

But them.

The fucking scum of the earth. The ones who think they have the power and right to touch and abuse those who can’t defend themselves. The sickos who⁠—

I can’t even think about it or I’ll boil over again, and I already had my stress relief for the night.

I let myself back in through the shop and up the stairs to my apartment. “Finally, you must be hungry, huh?” I ask my dog, Bacon, as I walk in the door. “Come on,” I say as I roughly pet his head and lean down to pour him his expensive canned food. He quickly goes to town on it as I sigh, finally setting my shit down on the counter and slowly slipping off my balaclava.

I walk over and start the shower, taking off my clothes so I can make sure they’re clean. I don’t let anything get bloody, but you have to expect some mess when you’re killing someone. Strangling them…that’s the easiest and cleanest way. Slow enough, too, so I can make them suffer helplessly as they fade away.

I slip off my dog tags, hanging them up on the wall hook as I take my compression shirt off and look at my used body in the bathroom mirror. My hand runs down my side as I feel all my scars and really look at myself.

I look at the fucked-up beast that stares back at me. It’s what I was made to be, what I trained to be for years as an Army Ranger. These hands aren’t good for anything except killing or hurting someone.

I shake off the reminder and step into the shower, the warm droplets relieving the tension in my body as I exhale. I have to open the shop early tomorrow—fuck, today already. I shouldn’t have gone so late.

After I wash myself, I take the extra body wash in my hand and rub it over my cock.

Fuck, I need this release.

My other hand steadies me against the shower wall, and I let my head fall forward as I pump my cock. My eyes are sealed shut as I imagine someone beneath me, taking it deep. Taking whatever I give her. Holding her against me by her hair as I fuck deep into her throat until she’s a mess of drool and tears, until I reward her by cumming down her throat.

“Fuck yes,” I growl as my release comes in tandem with my daydream. I stand there for a moment to catch my breath, rinsing my hands before I turn the shower off and dry myself.

My hair drips as I walk out of the bathroom with the towel on my waist, spotting Bacon waiting on the couch. “You know you’re not allowed on there,” I remind him softly, but sternly and he hesitates but gets down and onto his own dog bed.

“Good boy, go to bed,” I say as I pat his head, passing him to go to my room and sleep for as long as I have left.

I wake up as the sun shines into the bedroom, groaning as I force myself up and walk over to the living room. I flick the television on before brewing my coffee, listening to the news channel’s shitty jingle blaring.

“NWS News, this is Eliana Ramirez reporting live. I’m here at the scene of another brutal murder, and this is a reminder the police are still on the hunt for the man responsible for the string of killings through the tri-state area, dubbed ‘The Hangman.’ This time, the victim was forty-two-year-old Marcus Williams, of Rio Vista Heights. Police are⁠—”

I sip my fresh coffee as I let it play, lighting my cigarette and walking over to the door to let Bacon down into the shop. I walk down with him, letting the sound of the television slowly fade, and the smell of motor oil and metal hits me like a bouquet of roses.

This shop is what’s kept me sane since I discharged from the army. I needed to be useful somehow, and it isn’t like killing is going to pay the bills. I wanted a simple life. I guess…I always hoped to have one since I was a boy. Now, I’m almost forty and I’ve come to realize that life will fuck you any chance it has. It’s impossible to keep happiness, to keep everything you want.

At least for someone like me.

The shop is rough around the edges, but it’s home. I found it by chance when I was driving through looking for whatever I can get to live in temporarily, but I knew this was it. A small mechanic shop with a little apartment on top. It’s all a man like me needs, someone who doesn’t require any sentimental shit.

Business is slow sometimes; I only have one car to work on today. I’m not prolific at this, I just grew up around cars and fixing them in my pop’s old shop. Most people would choose somewhere with more fixings than I have to offer, but I put myself wholly into each job I do. It’s a great distraction.

The glass door of the shop opens and chimes the old bell dangling from it, and I set my mug atop a table and round the corner to see who came in. It’s a short man, much older than me, waiting patiently. “Sir,” I say as I offer my hand to him, “Kane Mercer, what can I do for you?”

“Name’s Frank. Oh, I’m not too sure what happened to the old thing, seems to take a dump on me every few thousand miles. I took it to the dealership, but I just can’t afford it. I was hoping to get an estimate from you,” he says, sounding defeated.

“I can take a look. Did they say what it was?”

“They said I needed a new transmission.”

I sigh. “I’ll take a look. You never know, sometimes it could be something a hell of a lot cheaper. You can leave your keys and number on the counter, and I’ll call you this afternoon.”

“Thank you, young man. I’ll just wait here for my wife to come get me.”

Young man? That’s been a while. I nod, and he sits in a chair in the small lobby as I go behind the counter to fill out some paperwork.

I hear rustling as he picks up the newspaper on the little table beside him, surely trying to pass some time reading. “Shame about the killings. You’ve been hearin’ about that Hangman fella?” he asks, shaking his head and turning the page.

Shame? I don’t answer, just giving a curt nod to be polite.

“I mean, what’s the point in the manhunt? Back in my day, anyone who laid hands on a woman or child got what they had coming to ‘em, no questions asked.”

I grin at his words, finally looking up. “That’s how it should be.”