The Redactor, Chapter 00

The Redactor

 

 

  re•dact (rɪˈdækt) : to put into suitable literary form; edit.

 

 

  The gun never wobbles in the movies.

  My hand squeezed the grip so tight it was sliding on the sweat. I stared along the barrel at the kid, but it wouldn’t sit still. The sight was drawing crazy circles round him when all I wanted was a bead on his chest.

  Maybe it never wobbles in the movies because they don’t task forty-year-old professors of literature with murder—particularly forty-year-old professors of literature with a heart condition and a fear of needles.

  So much can change in a week.

  Murder? Yeah, I wanted to murder this kid. I wanted my bullet to tear a hole in an artery. I was giddy to see him ragdoll to the ground, blood gushing onto the street.

  I just hoped that before he died he had the presence of mind to look for me. I wanted him to know I made it. Me, Jack Griffin. I played his game. And he lost.

  I’m tempted to ask, “How did it come to this?”

  Fact is, I know precisely how it came to this. It’s documented in ridiculous detail on the kid’s website.