Four. One. Nine.

A cloud of dazzling red, white and blue sparks rose in the night, mushroomed and fell away, back down to the parched earth while the band played God Bless The USA. As everyone’s eyes were fixed heavenwards, Karen stared out across the highway into the darkness. Somewhere out there, her little boy sat with his grandmother, waiting for her. She had become a mommy of tiptoeing midnight kisses and rushed early mornings. The oohs and aahs and excited screams gave way to an insistent crackling from the open window of her Chevy Tahoe.

It was the dispatcher. All units. Four. One. Nine. Four. One. Nine.

And the band played on.

Conversations With A Killer

Here’s the thing. The Government sent me in an official capacity to kill as many of the enemy I could. I walked around the hills and deserts of a foreign country with a fucking huge gun. And people died. Thousands of them. I saw drones drop bombs on villages. I saw kids blown to shit. The enemy. Yeah, right, you’re shocked, you don’t even know the half of it. But when I, me, take it upon myself to rid the world of my enemies, the Government doesn’t like it. Calls me a murderer. A serial killer. A fucking sadist animal. You see? Well do ya? What’s the difference? Because from where I’m standing, I just don’t see one. – The Angel Maker

brent stout ramirez

Image by Brett Stout @ pinterest.com/brettcooterific/