I’m entering the southern outskirts by foot. It’s a gated community so I had to put my car a couple of miles from here. This is the area where the rich who are afraid of the openly dark city life reside. And of course that makes it the darkest place in this city. This is where the people live who think they are better and thus deserve better. Where the people live who look down at outward expressed absurdity, but who do the craziest things in their own secret basement.

I’m sitting on a white bench that is put there with no apparent purpose. Directly in front of me is a two lane street. The pavements are broad on both sides. And the houses are all self-standing single structures. All looking alike, although it’s possible to see some differences. The one in front of us stands out the most, since it’s the only one with white roof tiles. The man of the house is watering his lawn with a hose. Why he does it by hand I don’t know, but he does. The lawn is green. The man himself has hairy legs that are shown openly for everyone to see; he’s wearing scarily short shorts.

Looking to the right I see a boy cycling in our direction. His bicycle is red and has a small trailer attached. A black box is hanging on his bicycle handle. The trailer as well as the box is filled with newspapers. One by one he picks them out of the box and throws them on the doorsteps of most houses. It’s a conservative area where people still invest in a paper newspaper. One that they aren’t reading most probably; a good thing knowing the kind of paper they receive.

The boy turns the corner and gets his paper ready to throw towards the doorstep of the short shorted hairy legged guy. The man notices the boy just before the paper is being thrown. A mixture of fear and outrage rise to his face while the boy, me and maybe some other neighbourhood inhabitants hear him cry out with an unusually high-pitched voice.

“I told those fuckers that my precious newspaper shouldn’t be touched by nigger scum!”

In complete shock the boy, who does have a noticeably darker complexion then short shorted, brakes so fast that his balls, he was sort of standing while cycling, crash into his bicycle handle. I can see his shock transforming; anger, fear, and a lot of pain that is combined with shame because of the unlucky collision.

The man points his hose towards the newspaper in an attempt to hose it back in the direction of the boy. “Come and get your fucking nigger paper,” he cries out with the same high-pitch, “And scrub yourself with it. Scrub yourself clean you shit-coloured excuse of a monkey.”

In that moment the man points his hose at the boy, who is completely frozen by the painful absurdness of the situation. He starts crying, while he and his papers are getting soaked. This will mean he would lose his job.

Meanwhile I walk cross the road, trying not to get wet. The man is focused in all his anger and doesn’t see me coming. I take out my gun and point it at his balding head. Just at that moment a little girl comes running out of his house. Blond curls and a face full of beautiful freckles, “Daddy!” she cries out.

The man turns in her direction but abruptly stops when he sees the gun pointed at him. The hose falls down in a way that makes it difficult to see if he just wetted himself after seeing me.

“No sir, don’t shoot him, I’m okay, he didn’t mean it like that, killing him won’t solve anything,” the paper boy cries out, sobbing like a little girl and clearly confused about what should be the outcome of this event.

“Daddy,” the little girl follows with a voice that clearly shows a raised sense of tragedy. It seems she’s just old enough to understand what is about to happen. She’s running towards her dad, while the future trauma already seems to take control of her. Soft little hands grasp the hairy wet legs of short shorted.

“I’m sorry short shorted, paper boy is clearly in for a different lesson for you,” I speak out to him with a dark and directive tone. I lower the gun and pull the trigger.

The small body that just attached itself to the hairy legs flies backwards in a splatter of blood and brains. The power of my Desert Eagle is clearly too much for this little girl. With only half a brain left she smashes onto the pavement. “Looks like a closed coffin funeral sir, hope this will make you rethink your behaviour,” I tell the father knowing that he will probably never change his idiotic behaviour.

Short shorted is frozen in complete shock. While his head was boiling red only a few seconds ago, now the only visible colour comes from a few splatters of his daughter’s blood. And while he collapses on his knees I see how paper boy starts throwing up, still standing with his bicycle between his legs.

“Do you realise what you made me do you fool?” I call out in the direction of paper boy, “if you wouldn’t have ousted your misplaced compassion, that sweet little girl would still be alive, you selfish weakling.”

The boy keeps on hurling combined with a squeaky sort of cry and so seems completely incapable of replying to me. The man isn’t doing much better. He’s crawling over the pavement as if he’s trying to collect the small pieces of brain. Both of them are enduring a major trauma; still the chance of them learning anything from this experience is almost null. Why do I have to live in a world that is filled up with sad individuals like these? And how is it possible that people think that all this rubbish is the result of intelligent design?

I put back my gun, I’m not here to relieve people from the misery they bring onto themselves.