First-rate Murder

Two things:

First, my butt is itching.

Second, John Lennon is in my head dancing his happy dance.

Why, you ask?

Because a neighborhood toughie, this kid who was my age who used to walk around our block with a revolver in his hand, is dead. Murdered by the very shadowy characters he had been dealing with for years. My regret? I wasn’t the one who pulled the freakin’ trigger.

I hated the bastard. Five years ago, I canvassed around for a hitman. Somebody told me it would cost me at least five thousand pesos and a guilty conscience. I told him the conscience I can easily handle, but I have no five thousand pesos. Jesus Christ, where would I get the five thousand pesos? So the bastard lived and wreaked havoc in otherwise Cavite’s version of Pleasantville for the subsequent few years. While I worked in Makati, I would daydream about that bright, sunshiny day when I would forget about it all and go to this bastard’s drug-smeared warren and pump six rounds into his tiny, tiny head. I would be laughing in ecstasy. I would smear the walls with his brain. I would tell my daydream to a Catholic officemate, and not halfway through my story, he would excuse himself to the bathroom and retch and retch and retch out his lasagna.

But then, somebody finally did it for me. Last night, my mother told me the bastard’s dead, and it was cinematic, worthy of a  Carlo Caparas flick. Some men in a jeep took him, brought him back many hours later all black and blue from torture (but still alive), kicked him out of the jeep, and there on the sidewalk, while he pleaded for his pathetic life, blasted bullets into his face. Everybody saw it. I mean, everybody.

When I heard the news, I told my sister let’s celebrate. She reminds me how morbid I am, the fellow’s dead, why be so happy? I told her what’s more morbid is the past five years, enduring this kid’s reign of terror and not lifting a finger. I told her let’s cook some food. Buy a tub of ice cream. I told her i want rocky road, with the mallows and nuts and all. I told her I would eat and laugh and daydream about brains being smeared on the walls, and countless mothers singing a happy song for our now peaceful nights.

[I also blog at the Festering Isolation (http://jblazarte.blogspot.com), which is a humor thing, by the way. Visit it. But read it while eating ice cream.]

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