Page 19 of The Ripper

I didn’t stop until he was pinned against the nearest wall, and pressed on his trachea with my forearm. As a precaution, I smacked his head against the hard surface a few times, making sure he was out of breath and dizzy before I let go of him.

He fell to the floor, gasping for air as I took off my suit jacket, neatly folded it and laid it on the back of the brown leather sofa.

“What do you want, man? Who are you?” he asked as I rolled up the sleeves of my white shirt, then pulled my gun from its holster and placed it over the jacket.

His eyes widened upon seeing it, then frantically darted around the room, probably looking for something to defend himself with.

“You are asking the wrong questions,” I said as I lit a cigarette.

His head tilted up to look me in the face, confusion crossing his miserable features as I blew out the smoke.

“Listen, man, if it’s about the car, take it back… I don’t want any trouble.”

I raised an eyebrow, then laughed without amusement. So, the car wasn’t his, but somehow it was registered to his name, which meant he had some connections. It complicated things, and I hated complications, but alas, I couldn’t allow him to live.

“I don’t want your car, Mr. Fowler,” I began, leaning against the back of the sofa as I smoked, “I want your life.”

“My, my life?” he stuttered as I moved closer, watching as he pushed himself harder against the wall.

I leaned over his face, watching him with a blank expression. “Yes, but whether you die quickly or in great pain while choking on your blood is entirely up to you.”

I took another drag on the cigarette, then pressed the burning side to his right cheek. He cried out at the burn and raised one hand to push me away, but I grabbed it in time and turned his wrist, hearing the crack in his bone as it snapped out of place.

This time, he screamed, and I took advantage of the moment to put my cigarette out on his tongue, then threw the bud in his mouth and covered it with my palm.

“Swallow, you piece of trash,” I gritted my teeth.

He choked and kept shaking his head, tears running down his face, but when I didn’t allow him to spit it out, he eventually listened and struggled to force it down.

I smacked his head against the wall again for good measure, then stepped back.

~ He’s so pathetic.

Fowler coughed, spluttered, and cried.

In that order.

“Please, man, I have no idea what you want,” he begged.

They all begged for mercy sooner or later, but I didn’t expect him to cave so quickly considering how he’d tried to manhandle her in the parking lot.

“It’s funny how you don’t seem so tough now,” I said as I pulled my phone out of my back pocket and showed him the photo of the woman he beat half to death, making him see how disfigured he left her, “What does your own medicine taste like, Mr. Fowler?”

“Are you her current boyfriend or what? Bitch was asking for it, man.”

The hatred in his eyes when they lingered on the photo did nothing to contain my anger. If anything, it only spurred it on. I hated trash like him more than anything, and while I’d entered his house with the intention of torturing him for hours on end, his time was running out quicker with every word that fell out of his mouth.

“No,” I held up my phone, flashing my lock screen.

It was a photo of Arella, taken in her favorite café. She was wearing a salmon pink blouse, her beautiful long blonde hair framing her doll face, and she was smiling brightly as she listened to a coworker.

“The doctor? I didn’t touch her, man, I swear…” he defended himself.

“When did you meet her?”

“She brought her car to the shop I work at,” he said. “We hit it off, and I asked for her number, I didn’t know she was taken, I swear.”

He tried to get up, but I had no intention of letting him stand ever again, so I punched his jaw, hissing as the pain shot through my knuckles. A tooth fell out of his mouth as blood spilled down his chin.

---