Chapter 1 - My last words

April 22, 2005

2:50 PM

Long Island

Home

SPRINGTIME ON THE NORTH SHORE OF LONG ISLAND makes a nice home for an educated man working within the system and enjoying his new found wealth. I’m still puzzled as to how I got here. I always felt I was destined for the streets or prison or an early grave. Of course, that still might be a strong possibility because my old silent enemy is back making a move against me.

As I sit here with my pen to paper, I am robotically pouring out a story that grips me by the throat. There is an overwhelming need to write this letter before it is too late. It is to the one that will change the world and bring justice, as I would never be able to do. The clear thoughts of the civilized man I once was are transforming into garbled screams. I am in the midst of a psychotic break and becoming a raging animal again. I have concluded that revenge is now my only purpose in life, so I prepare my teeth to cut through my enemy violently and bloody. How my revenge will materialize is the most important question. Murder by the rich is now my roar. And murder by the rich will be the last words I will ever speak.

My story of revenge began when I came home from work on the day that was to change my life forever. I rushed into the house to answer the phone. My wife’s black poodle was underfoot, hoping to seize a finger and engage me in play, but I paid no attention. Life was finally good to me and everything was stable. If I wasn’t inherently miserable, I’d even say fulfilling. The family got a restaurant a few years-ago that we were working at day and night, and finally we were making a couple of coins. This was a first for us because we had been pissing in the wind for almost three decades and getting back not only our bodily mist, but also that of our bosses. I put my briefcase on the table and answered the phone. It was my mother; she told me to hold on. Then my father got on the phone.

“Your brother is dead.” The words whispered out of the plastic receiver.