I needed to be stronger, quickly. Once again, Mickey had moved past me, and I had no idea what he was capable of. If we were lucky enough to get through all of this, and it was just the two of us left standing, I reckoned I didn’t stand a chance. I had to give my mark what it wanted. It wriggled with excitement at the thought.
Killing off scumbags one at a time had been just barely enough to get the mark to stop pestering me so much, to stop the constant nagging urge to kill that would make the center of my brain itch. But I needed to do more if I wanted to progress — I needed a massacre. My list of gangbangers was dwindling, and none of them hung out in groups of more than five or six. I needed a group in the double digits — triple digits, even.
Fortunately, I was invited to a Klan rally by a kind stranger on the street. Guess I look the type.
I was walking back from the Tunnels, racking my brain for places that might house a few dozen pieces of shit at once, when he shouted at me from a Circle K parking lot. At first, I thought he was either going to ask me for a dollar or tell me how I was going to burn in Hell, but instead, he handed me a flier advertising a party taking place that night at 9pm. It was an amateur collage of white men singing, white men dancing, white men shouting, marching, and burning crosses. Below the collage was a long paragraph containing so many misspellings that I wasn’t even sure which ethnic group he was trying to talk shit about. I took the paper from him and laughed with joy.
“Thank you so much for this invitation!” I said. “You can count on me being there!”
The man had a dirty brown beard and wore an even dirtier black hoodie and blue jeans. People walking by probably thought we were brothers. He matched my enthusiasm, thanked me over and over and shook my hand vigorously.
“Ya know, a lot of people these days don’t take to us as kindly as you,” he said. His teeth were stained yellow from the chewing tobacco that made his bottom lip bulge. He spat a brown glob onto the gas station concrete.
“I can’t imagine why,” I said, absolutely dripping with sarcasm that I knew this dumbass wouldn’t pick up.
“I couldn’t tell ya,” he said. “We ain’t as strong as we used to be, but we ain’t out yet. Still got about two-hundred-fifty men just in east Texas.”
“And they’re all gonna be there tonight?” I asked hopefully.
“Prolly not all of ‘em, but there’ll be a good showin’ for sure, don’t you worry about that. We’ll give you a warm welcome. What size robe you wear? Ah, never mind, they’re all the same size.”
“Well,” I said, “see you tonight,” and walked off. He stayed where he was, in front of the gas station entrance, waving people down and being ignored. I hoped a few others would accept his invitation.
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It was strangely similar to family barbecues I used to go to as a kid, except everyone was white and saying the most heinous shit I had ever heard come out of someone’s mouth. I had heard nicer conversations between homeless schizos and police officers. And instead of the typical bonfire, there was a giant cross in the middle of the host’s giant backyard. They must have put five gallons of gas on it, the way it was burning. The food was good though — I had a big plate of brisket, yams, and baked beans. Figured it would be stupid to let it all go to waste.
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I wanted to start tearing through them, just to get it over with, but as I looked around, I noticed just how many children there were at this part. It really was a family barbecue. The yard was full. At least fifty or sixty men had shown up for the event, and most of them had brought their wives and kids along. The bigger kids were off to the side, playing football, standing around, generally trying to avoid their parents. The smaller kids were interspersed in the crowd though. That would complicate things, but my fucking life was on the line. I wasn’t going to let a few racists-in-training stop me.
They had a little stage with a podium in front of the burning cross, presumably for the drunken hate speeches that were going to come later. I found the host — a portly man named Dave who had a bright white mustache — and asked him if I could say a few words to my new brothers.
“Well shit, I don’t see why not! Love the enthusiasm!” He slapped me on the back with a little too much force. His face was bright red, and he could barely stand upright. The stench of beer poured out of his sweat glands. “Go on and tell them all what you think about the —”
I will not repeat the rest of what he said to me.
I got up on the stage and tapped the microphone a couple of times to get everyone’s attention. It took a solid minute, but eventually, everyone was at least facing my direction.
“Howdy. The name’s Gus, and this is my first day here. I never thought I’d be a Klan member, but y’all are just so nice and friendly, I couldn’t help myself.”
There were a few drunken claps and hoots, but most were just waiting to get back to drinking.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make this short. I just got one favor to ask of y’all. Can you get your kids and put them in the house, where it’s safe?”
There weren’t any drunken hoots or hollers that time. It was replaced by confused murmuring.
“Normally, I wouldn’t give enough of a shit about you guys to come here and do all this, but I needed to kill some people — a lot of people — and fast. I didn’t know who to kill, and like a gift from God, your friend here hollered at me from across the street and told me to come here. Now, all of you are going to die. I’ll let your kids go though, if you want. Just tell them to get in the house.”
I pointed to the man who invited me, and a bunch of people turned to look at him. He mouthed something like “Ionknowwhathetalkinbout”, and everyone turned to look back at me.
“Who in the fuck you think you’re talkin’ to?” a burly ginger man towards the front of the crowd yelled at me. He looked to be about six-foot-six, and had probably never known what it was like to lose a fight. I jumped off the stage and punched him in the throat. His windpipe collapsed like a Pringles can that had been run over by a car. His legs gave out within a second, and I got on top of him and punched him in the head. He went limp.
The sound of gunshots rang through the air like fireworks, and a stream of kids ran away from me and into the safety of the house. I grabbed the person closest to me — one of the old, shriveled wives of one of the old, shriveled men — and held her in front of me. Some people still took shots at us, but none of them were sober enough to hold a gun steady. One grazed the old lady on the shoulder and she screamed, but she didn’t have any hope of wriggling out of my grasp.
Two men tried to run to the gate in hopes of getting to their cars and getting out of here, but I nailed them in the backs of their heads with booger bombs, painting the white privacy fence with the contents of their skulls.
Seeing this, and seeing the hostage in my arms, everyone froze. They realized they were hopeless to do anything against me. Some looked like they had resigned to dying. Some looked like cornered animals, ready to do something desperate — but I wasn’t going to give them the chance. I shot a stream of slime behind me, hitting the cross.
Slowly, I moved the trail towards them, the fire following it along the way. They started to scream and run in every direction, so I whipped my hand around and created a ring of fire to close them in. I added another ring, and another, and they all gathered in a pile in the middle, pushing and clawing each other in a state of pure panic. But there was nothing that could help them now, and the fire closed in on them and swallowed them whole. The fire, ignited by slime and fueled by the melting fats on their bodies, roared higher than the cross. The smell was a gut-wrenching combination of cooked human flesh and burnt hair. Their screams were deafening for a moment, but died out almost as quickly as they started. There seemed to be a synchronized sigh as the life left their bodies, and then they were nothing more than food for the flame.
My mark cackled with glee, and so did I.