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.
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