It wasn't about the money, though that's a big factor in why I reverted to a life of crime after being out of jail for less than a year. The money was a side issue, a bonus. It was more respect than money, and it was more about power than respect, but most of all it was about fear, or to be accurate inspiring that fear in others. Fear of what I was capable of, fear of what I could do to another human being, fear of what I was about to do when I held a knife to your balls or a gun in your mouth. That's what it's all about.
Once a bully, always a bully.
To feel another man, especially one that's even bigger than you, shaking in his boots as the piss runs down his legs, the stench of fear coming right out of his guts and hitting you in the face as he breathes what he fears might be his final breath through a mouth that refuses to close, the pleading for mercy, the tears welling up in his eyes, the quivering of the lips, the chattering of his teeth, and if you listen very closely you can even hear his heart hammering against his rib cage as he senses his end nearing. The pupils dilate as the eyes go wide and tiny beads of foul smelling sweat ooze from every pore. It's all about terror. Being on the receiving end of terror is the ultimate rush, and I mean that in more ways than one, but being the one dealing out the terror is even better. It's so powerful it's nearly sexual. Addictive. The fact that I needed to buy my way into a big job down the coast in San Diego was relatively incidental. I had most of it together - I just needed some survival money while the heist was being planned and finalised. As the liquor store I was knocking off probably had CCTV - they all do these days - and as I was an ex-con it was only a matter of time before the cops got my face off the tapes and came looking for me, but I wouldn't have to worry about that until morning. By then I'd be long gone. San Diego beckoned, and a serious job with some pals from prison. It was time to quit L.A.
I was smack bang in the middle of one of those delicious fear moments, too. The shotgun in my face wavered almost uncontrollably, the shaking of the shopkeeper on the stock end of the pump-action amplifying the fear that he was feeling from being on the receiving end of the .38 that I held rock steady and pointed between his eyes. I felt a wry grin spread across my unshaved visage as I pulled back the cocking lever, watching the shopkeeper flinch at the ratcheting click.
"Ain't afraid to die over a few bucks, mister. And I ain't afraid to kill for a few bucks, either." I drawled. "How about you?"
There was no answer. There seldom is. Fear often paralyses. These hot shots are so full of themselves at the beginning, have probably rehearsed what they would do in a hold up - reach for the gun, cock it in one smooth motion, and they usually have a little tough guy speech all ready for delivery in a shaky high pitched voice that didn't quite sound that way when they were practicing. The words usually dry up when I roll my eyes, put my knife down on the counter, and draw my gun. That's when the fear hits 'em hard.
"I'm watching the corners of your eye, mister, 'cause that's the tell. That's when I know you're going to pull the trigger. It's why I carry a thirty-eight. The trigger pressure on this is so light that when I see your eyes crinkle in anticipation of the noise and recoil I'll pull my trigger automatically, and my bullet will be turning your brains to jello before you've put enough pressure on your trigger to make that old shotgun go off. You might get lucky and blow my head off when your fist clenches in a death spasm, but you'll be just as dead as me. Think about it. Are you worth a hundred bucks?" I sneered. "Point the gun at the ceiling, empty the till, we all go home to the kids tonight. Tomorrow's a brand new day."
The shopkeeper hesitated, then did as I had suggested. I took the shotgun off him, unloaded it, and lay it back on the counter, throwing the shells to the back of the store. His shaking hands handed me a bundle of notes which I stuffed into my pocket, then I lowered the .38 and picked up my knife. "That was cool, man. Wise choice." I backed away toward the door, gave the guy a wink, and said; "Be seeing you."
I laughed as I walked to the car that I had just boosted, then got in and checked the mirror before pulling off. That's when the rear window exploded, pelting the headrest behind me and the back of my seat with shattered glass. The stupid motherfucker had reloaded. He probably hadn't the time to jack in more than a round or two, so I put my foot down and barged my way into the traffic, laughing more nervously this time as I drew the revolver out of my coat and let off three wild, unaimed shots over my shoulder, the big window behind the shopkeeper exploding into fragments. That should make him piss himself, I smiled.
Now my next problem was to ditch the damn car. Driving a car with a smashed rear window and a back end peppered with shotgun pellet holes was just asking for police intervention. Two blocks away I cruised up to a stop light that had just turned red. Ahead of me was a three, maybe four year old Mercedes with the top down. This was perfect. Because of the carjacking issues in Los Angeles most sedans drove with the doors locked, but obviously open topped cars had a major weakness in the security stakes. I hopped out of my Dodge, jumped up onto the trunk of the Merc, and grabbed a handful of the brunette in the passenger seats long hair and put the cold barrel of my gun in the back of her neck. "Get the fuck out of the car, driver." I said as the shocked man in the drivers' seat considered making a move to defend his woman. "Don't even think about it or the slut dies."
Now the fear kicked in. Not just fear for himself, but fear for his wife, girlfriend, whatthefuckever. " Out!" I snarled, cocking the hammer, pulling harder on the woman's hair while her fingernails tried to force my hand to release her by digging her nails into the backs of my fingers. He complied. I jumped into the drivers' seat and tore across the junction when the lights turned green, then I stopped by the kerb on the other side of the intersection and told the bitch to get out. She didn't need any convincing. I pulled off again in a squeal of tyres as the full power of the big German engine kicked me in the back. This was a nice car. In about two minutes the owner would be on the phone babbling to the cops that his pride and joy had been stolen by a maniac with a gun and the patrol cars would then be on the lookout for me. While convertible Mercedes SL's were two a penny in LA, it wouldn't be long before they were on my tail but that wasn't really a problem as I was only ten minutes from Suzie's place. I rifled through the glovebox as I drove with one hand, finding nothing useful except an ID badge for some IT company out in the Valley that didn't ring any bells with me, but the jacket slung on the back seat of the car yielded a wallet with three hundred bucks and a brace of credit cards. I threw the cards out of the car one at a time as I drove. Maybe some kids could have some fun with them. I wasn't risking using those. They were too easy to trace these days. I stuffed the three hundred bucks in my pockets and then threw the wallet out into the street. A minute later I was in the parking lot at Suzie's, and I left the car in a space near the street with the keys in. With a bit of luck it would be gone by the time I was done with Suzie.
I rolled up to the doors and pushed the intercom button for her apartment. After a while I got a hello from her flatmate. "Hiya Jenny. Is Suzie there?"
"No, she's at work. Should be back about two." Came the tinny reply.
