101 People to Kill Before I Die Read online

  We had a light lunch, sitting down with Wendy. Charlie brought me a coke from the fridge and poured another beer for himself. Wendy started telling me how bad coke was for me, which was a bit annoying. She was always full of opinions on all sorts of health fads and never hesitated to let you know what was good, and what was bad, and what was very, very bad. You know the type. I just ignored her. Charlie watched all of this and smiled. I vaguely wondered what went down when she tried this stuff on him. But I couldn’t think of a time when she had. Females can be quite annoyingly ditsy creatures. Their male partners quickly learn to put up with most of it - so long as they're regularly getting their end in. But Charlie wasn’t like that. He was rock solid. No bullshit. He probably told her to shut up a couple of times, back in the early days. And that was that.

  We ate some more. Wendy was still talking at us. Now she was going on about the magical healing power of crystals. Sacred vibrations. Centering on the universe. Some such fucking dribble. Charlie was quiet. He must see something in her. But, quite frankly, I couldn't see what. Then Wendy asked me about Beatrice and Laetitia. What a fucking bitch! Charlie knew this was not something I wanted to talk about. Ever! He could see my anger building. He looked at Wendy and said to her,

  "Not now Wendy."

  He turned back to me.

  "OK, mate. Let's get you sorted."

  He led me out of the house towards his garage.

  Amazing! He had a large secret room under his garage. He told me it used to be a bomb shelter, that no-one else knew about it. Probably not even Wendy, but I didn’t ask. It was built by some fucking nut-job who had been deeply concerned about a bomb dropping on him, in St Kilda! There was a trapdoor under a thick rug. The door was locked and bolted. He opened it and we climbed down a ladder into the underground room. When he pulled the door shut the rug would have been pulled back into place. The lights came on automatically. I looked around, exclaiming out loud,

  "Holy Fuck!"

  There were racks of weapons and ammunition - handguns, rifles, shotguns, machine guns, various types and models. A couple of the large M-60 machine guns made famous by the Rambo movies. Some claymore anti-personal mines. Basically, these consisted of a few thousand small ball bearings wrapped around an explosive charge. Must be pointed the right way - as is drilled into every recruit, endlessly. Makes a right fucking mess when it goes off. You don’t want it pointing the wrong way. On the far wall, I could see some boxes of grenades. On the left side of the room, multiple rows of knives and nunchucks. On a table in the center of the room there was an RPG-8 rocket launcher, another Glock pistol, a shotgun - a Remington Model 900, that’s a good gun - a Kalashnikov automatic assault rifle and an Uzi sub machine gun, along with boxes of ammunition of the corresponding types. There were a couple of shoulder holsters - one for the Glock and a different slightly larger one for the Uzi. There were a few tools - some lock picking devices, a couple of different electronic devices for breaking into modern supposedly secure cars, wire cutters and larger bolt cutters. There was also a couple of large carry bags, and what looked like a maintenance uniform. I already had an axe, a crow bar, a baseball bat, some piano wire and a few sticks. I was planning to make a garrote using the wire and the sticks. I suppose I could have used one of the nunchucks as a makeshift garrote. But the chain is too thick. Piano wire cuts into the neck far more effectively.

  Charlie looked at me sternly. Then he asked me,

  "What happened Wednesday night Brian? Must have been just after I left."

  I replied,

  "They were taking a girl away. They were going to kill her."

  Charlie wasn’t impressed.

  "Did you know this girl?"

  I hesitated. But I couldn’t lie to Charlie.

  "I only just met her. We had a ..."

  I was going to say, 'a connection' but Charlie continued my sentence for me.

  "A lap-dance. So a pretty girl rubs her ass up against your crotch and you risk everything for her?"

  I didn’t reply. Charlie wasn't angry. He doesn't get angry. It was more like disappointment. Which was much worse. He explained it to me, slowly and clearly,

  "Mate. Bystanders, civilians, they get killed all the time. You can’t get involved. It’s not your problem. Just stick to the job at hand."

  I replied,

  "Yes. OK."

  He looked straight at me.

  "She's still with you, isn't she? You've been shagging her, haven't you?"

  I replied sheepishly,

  "Well ... yes."

  We both started laughing. After we calmed down again, he put his hand on my shoulder.

  "Mate. You'll never change. And I love you for it."

  He turned towards the table in the middle of the room - the one loaded with the weapons, tools and ammunition. He said,

  "I've got everything that was on your list. A few extra things I thought might come in handy.”

  I asked him,

  “So how much do you want for it?”

  He looked at me, almost insulted that I’d asked. Though he himself had mentioned a price on Wednesday night at the club. Now he said,

  “Nothing mate. For you, it’s all free.”

  I replied,

  “Thanks mate. Appreciated.”

  He pointed to a small box containing the rounds for the RPG-8.

  "They're TPG6 grenades, thermobaric. Should do the job. There's only three but that's all you’ll need. Once you've done the hit leave the launcher behind. You'll get caught if you try to run with it. Or at the very least everyone will remember you running away. You've done your recon? You know how you're getting in and out?"

  I nodded.

  "Yeah."

  He continued speaking,

  "OK. I assume you're going high for the hit. It’s easy enough getting in and out of nearby buildings. But I've thrown in a maintenance uniform. Big bulky jacket, lots of pockets. The uniform makes you effectively invisible. They might not even remember you afterwards. Maintenance guys come and go - no-one notices them."

  I nodded again,

  "Sure mate, thanks."

  We paused for a while, taking stock of each other. Then Charlie spoke to me again,

  "You sure you want to go through with this?"

  I replied,

  "Yeah. I'm sure."

  Charlie sighed. I'd never seen him do that before.

  "Really fucking sorry to hear about the cancer mate. How long you got?"

  I shrugged.

  "Six months, just a few months apparently before I'm really fucking sick."

  Charlie smiled sadly.

  "Probably won’t make it that long after you get going on all of this. They'll all be hunting you."

  I smiled back even more sadly.

  "That’s the plan."

  For a moment Charlie almost looked like he envied me. I asked him,

  "You don’t have a problem with this?"

  Charlie replied,

  "Na. Of course not. I trust your judgement. World's full of fucking assholes. There's a lot of cunts I'd kill too if I was in your situation. The cops will get you though, you know that. It’s a million to one. The house always wins. It’s just a question of how many kills you can rack up before then. Try not to do any cops if you can avoid it. Except Jack Williams. I assume you’re going to kill that cunt.”

  I nodded.

  “Top of the fucking list. But I’ll do him last. I wanna really fuckin enjoy it.”

  Charlie pulled out a set of keys and threw them to me.

  “These are for the house in Maffra. Officially it doesn’t belong to me anymore. I’ve sold it a few times through shelf companies. It’s been empty for over a year. You’ll probably be safe there for a while.”

  I put the keys in my pocket and thanked him.

  We made our way out of the secret storage room, and the garage, and back to the house. I was carrying the weapons and ammunition in two large bags. Wendy was at the front door waiting for us. She made no
comment on the two bags I was carrying. I wondered how much she even knew of Charlie's business. He wouldn’t want her involved. I shook hands with Uncle Charlie. We had a kind of a moment. We both knew that this was the last time we'd ever see each other. He said to me,

  "See you around mate, maybe in the next fucking life."

  I replied,

  "Yeah mate, looking forward to it."

  He smiled at me, one last time, exclaiming,

  "Until then, live fucking dangerously."

  I replied simply,

  "You bet I will."

  I turned and walked away. I was at that moment full of love for Uncle Charlie. There's no other way to describe it. And full of fucking hate and rage for just about everybody else. Superficially calm but beneath that a raging torrent of violent emotions just waiting to burst out.

  As I opened my car door I tuned back. I waved to Charlie, one last time. I smiled at Wendy - a very forced smile. She smiled back at me, beaming at me, so smugly and condescendingly. It ruined the whole fucking moment. God! I fucking hate Wendy. I really don't know what Charlie sees in her. He did tell me once that she gives good head. And she's got a nice enough body. Firm and tight for her age. She's probably still a pretty good root. Maybe sometimes that's enough. But how does he put up with the rest of her? It's not just the fucking crystals and the health fads. She's just so fucking full of it. She'll argue with you about anything until she's blue in the face. Ignorant as piss. Dumb as dog shit. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t stop her. She oozes confidence and self-assertion. She thinks she knows everything. All you can eventually do is give up and agree with her, or walk away. Charlie would probably kill you if you hit her. He wouldn’t kill me but he wouldn’t be happy. There would be consequences.

  She's a full blooded, pugnaciously dogmatic, born-again Christian too. Which surprised me at first - I'd tagged her as the 'I'm spiritual but not religious' type. Whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean. Don't get me wrong I've got nothing against people following religion. Keeps them quiet and docile ... mostly! You can believe in whatever god you want, worship him, pray to him, burn incense, join hands and chant fucking Kumbaya. Be willing to sacrifice your first born if he so commands. No, I draw the line at that last one. It’s only a small step from there to slaughter the unbelievers, massacre the infidels. Anyway, believe whatever the fuck you want to believe - so long as it’s harmless. I don’t care. But honestly, I don’t understand it. It’s all such obviously made up crap, woven out of pre-existing myths and fairy tales - on par with Santa Clause, the Easter Bunny and the fucking Tooth Fairy. It has been developed and maintained, honed and crafted by organized rackets founded and run by all manner of merry hucksters down through the ages. You'd have to have shit for brains to take any of it seriously. Or have a gun to your head, threatened with mutilation and murder if you don’t. Yeah. That’d suck big time. Or maybe you’ve just been brainwashed from birth and never really thought about it. Or maybe you’re even one of the privileged few in on the scam. On the take. Living very well probably. Doing quite well for yourself. A luxurious palace in Rome. A $50 million mansion in Missouri. A golden temple in Tibet. One of a few warm, well fed, monks chanting and praying to the Buddha, every one of them supported by a thousand peasants sentenced to a life of back breaking toil on the freezing plains. Every one of the peasants dreaming of being reborn a monk after a thousand more lifetimes of well-deserved and completely just and necessary pain and suffering. Yeah right. But if they object they’ll be killed anyway. Probably by one of the other peasants. So what are you gonna fuckin do?

  It's not just religion, but philosophy, politics, so called 'business', the media ... the starting point of any real understanding of anything is that it’s all fucking bullshit designed to fuck you over, every which way. A foul, all pervading, rotting, sprawling web of lies and bullshit spun by, pumped out by, thieves and butchers, politicians and priests, con-men and liars, academics and 'entertainers', sycophants and hypocrites, maybe even a few true believers - the worst sort - all of them short stroking it through the entirety of their miserable, pathetic, fake, conforming, fucked up little lives.

  If there was a god, they would all be such a bitter disappointment to him that I'd be doing him - and them - a favor by putting some of the scumbags out of their fucking misery. I would be the divine instrument of his righteous and holy wrath - cleansing the Earth on his behalf, of all liars, idiots and assholes. Of course, there would be very fucking few left standing at the end of that. And most of the gods I've heard of seem to prefer liars, idiots, and assholes as judged by the quality of their most ardent followers and admirers. Anyway, that's all bullshit too. The one's I'm killing ... my motivation is simple. Revenge. Payback. They fucked me. Before I die, I fuck them. It has all the rigor and precision, the clarity and objectivity, even the fucking beauty, of a mathematical formula. Quid Pro Quo! Motherfuckers!

  I drove away from Uncle Charlie's house in a foul mood - not the way I'd intended. Wendy tends to do that to me. Every single fucking time I see her. It was already 2:30 PM. But it wouldn’t take long to drive from St Kilda to the CBD. I needed to be at the Collins Building and in place by 4:30 PM. Plenty of time. I drove down Ferrars Street, into Spencer Street, across the bridge and then turned right into Collins Street. The city is a fucking maze if you’re not used to it. To add to the complexity sometimes you can’t turn right, other times you can’t turn left. Some streets are one-way only. And the rules vary depending on the time of day and the phase of the moon. It’s fucking confusing enough without all the idiots and assholes getting in the way. No fucking idea how to drive, just pushing their way in as best they can. It’s amazing there aren’t more accidents. I had to hold my temper when provoked by tailgaters on several occasions. Fucking assholes. I fucking hate them. But it was a Friday afternoon in the city. Witnesses, cops, everywhere. I couldn’t afford to take any action. I had a more important target today. I didn’t dare to even get pulled over for something petty like speeding or running a red light, not with all the shit I had in my boot. Twenty years per item, just about. I wasn’t at all fearful about being caught or killed, didn't give a shit - and that gave me a great advantage - but I didn’t want it to happen just yet. Being cornered and going down in a massive shoot out was pretty much my image of how it was all going to end. But not yet.

  I pulled into the multi-level parking garage next to the Collins building. The entrance was from Russel Street, around the corner from Flinders Street. I checked that no-one was around before opening the boot. I grabbed the duffle bag holding the RPG-8. I carefully added in the large bolt cutters, wrapped in a towel. I put the Uzi submachine gun in its holster and secured the holster in place under my right shoulder. I already had one of my Glock pistols holstered under my left shoulder. I put on the maintenance jacket Charlie had given me. It was a bit bulky but I wasn't going to a fashion show. I put a few extra clips of ammunition for each of the handguns in my pockets. The Uzi and the Glock should be enough for close quarter defense if it came to that. Though if it did, in the aftermath of my planned attack, I was probably fucked anyway. I managed to get a parking spot on the first floor, close to the exit ramp leading down onto the street. I thought this might come in handy also. It would take me less than two minutes after the attack to get back to my car. They wouldn’t be able to lock the place down that quickly. And if they did, well I had the Uzi.

  I casually walked out of the garage and into the Collins building next door. Charlie was right about the maintenance uniform. No one paid any attention to me at all. I walked across the lobby, got into the lift and headed for the twentieth floor. From there, as expected, I easily gained access to the roof, using the bolt cutters on the padlocked wire gates blocking access to the final maintenance stairway. I moved towards the southern facing edge, crouching a little. Security would be light. Australia was such a safe country. Nobody would be expecting this. But I didn’t want to be seen, just in case. I got down on my knees and looked down acro
ss Flinders Street towards Federation Square, just a hundred meters away. They were making final preparations. A small crowd had formed already. I glanced at my watch, 3:35 PM. Fifty-five minutes to kick off.

  I lay flat on my back, waiting patiently, staring at the sky for quite some time. A deep, deep blue in all directions, with swirling white patches of cloud scattered here and there. A mid-summer day, sun blazing. It was hot but it was peaceful in a way. Naturally I started thinking about Barry Robertson. The cocksucker as we all called him. In actual fact it was the other way around with many parolees forced to perform the act on him under the threat of being sent back inside. Of course, for a lot of them it wasn’t such a big deal. They'd been the bitch for years in multiple in-prison relationships and grown accustomed to pleasing and placating the dominant male, anyway they could. But nobody likes to be forced. It’s so much nicer to be wooed. Flowers, chocolates and a movie first, at the very least. He never tried it on me though. I would have bitten it off, ground it to shreds, spat it out, and then ripped his fucking throat out. He knew that. Even the slimiest of skunks develop a good sense of what their limits are - and what bounds not to transgress. He had though, harassed me constantly, day and night, well above the required and expected level of threat and intimidation. When I didn’t react in the way he wanted, and expected, he escalated. A couple of times he'd planted drugs - amphetamines and weed - in my house and then called the cops. I would have gone back inside for years! Fucking asshole! Fortunately, I'd been warned about this tactic and managed to find the items and relocate them more securely before the cops burst into my apartment in predawn raids. Which is insulting enough in its own way. They found nothing. Of course I kept the drugs, sold most of them, used the rest. He was just such an aggressive, obnoxious, overbearing little prick. Arrogant to the extreme, though what the fuck the asshole had to be arrogant about was never at all clear to me or anybody else. Anyway, he would be dead in just a few minutes. And good fucking riddance.