Villains Don't Get Backstories

Chapter 1

The key to cat and mouse is not letting the mouse know you are a cat; smile, use an even low voice, maybe even buy the trash a drink. I always order a scotch neat. It consistently arrives in a thick low ball that provides a nice crack, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

"Hey, boss, this seat taken?" I hunch my shoulders to hide my burly 6'4" frame and dip my eyes down to give the impression of submission.

"Free country," his voice slithered from his thin, cracked lips before he takes a long pull from his cheap beer. The toxic mix of crappy beer seeping from his pores mixes with his aura of complete uselessness.

"You look familiar... you from around here?" I flick one side of my mouth up to offer a flash of a settling smile.

"Oh, I'm the luckiest man alive, been on the news and everything," he smiles to his drink.

"You don't say; you win a scratcher or something," I take a small sip of my scotch as the bartender gives me a pleading look to disengage, but I need my confirmation.

"Just got out of prison. They tried me for beating some dumb bitch, but spelled my fucking name wrong." A noxious laugh slipped from between his yellow teeth before he took another long pull from his beer.

"Oh, right, Peter Fields."

"That's my name; with an S... a glorious S." He set his empty pint glass down and nodded to the bartender for another.

"So," I lowered my voice and tipped my smile to that of a conspirator, "did you do it?"

"What? Beat the bitch? Sure did; had it coming to her too..."

This is where I stop listening. Villains don't have backstories. Decisive movements cut. They start and finish before most even lift their eyes. My hand slips to the clammy skin on the back of his neck, pulling his face down on the thick glass of my low ball. I never drink much. I like to think the alcohol mixes with the deep gash and adds another layer of pain.

The look of sputtering comes next, assuming I haven't misjudged and knocked him entirely unconscious. I like the panic, the grasping for an understanding of the situation. Oh, and Peter sputters. This is when a hero would stop, tie him to a chair, and have the cops called. His confession to me could probably warrant a retrial. But I'm no legal expert, nor do I care for paperwork. And I'm not a hero.

I cock my head as I inspect Peter. He is speaking, but the pounding in my ears drowns out the words. His stool falls out from behind him, causing his feet to stumble as he tries to scamper away from me. He knows he is looking into the eyes of death. My hand reaches into my coat to find the soothing cool of my gun while my finger settles into its home on the trigger.

There is a moment before a person dies that their eyes grow wide. That's pretty universal. Hands are the wild card. Some see the flash of light bouncing from the metal of my gun and cover their face. It's humorous, really; a bullet would rip through the delicate flesh and bone of a hand like a knife through warm butter. Peter reaches towards me, waving his hands. If I cared to listen to his words, I'm sure he'd be screaming no, possibly even shouting his redeeming qualities. I don't care; I just squeeze. I love the kick of the gun as it surges up my arm. It's the feeling of success as Peter slumps to the floor. Blood pools fast.

"Sorry for the mess," I murmur to the bartender as I throw a hundred-dollar bill down. He gives me a slight but appreciative nod. We'd be friends. If things were different, if I were a plumber, I'd be friends with this bartender. I'd slide up to his bar on Tuesday evenings to complain about my nagging wife and boast about my two little princesses' upcoming dance recital. But this is life, and the only camaraderie I share is that nod.

I walk from the aftermath. I like the feeling of the saunter as I tuck my gun back into its holster. The warmth of the barrel permeates into my side as I slide into my Mustang. There is nothing that melds about me. I stick out; I don't try to deter it. I choose this life. I'm not running; I'm just waiting for my clock to run out because, as I said, villains don't have backstories. When I started, my heart would race with the drumming of success, but not anymore. It was just another Tuesday spent cleaning up someone else's mess.

"Hi," it was a chirp of a voice that stuck like a thorn directly into my eardrum.

"The fuck," I nearly swerved into a ditch as my eyes flickered to the shadowy woman in my back seat. "You got a light?" She asked casually.

"What?" I don't care for surprises, particularly when they are in the form of a chick in my backseat.

"Nevermind," she grumbled as she squirmed around her seat to work her hand into the pocket of her tight grey jeans. "I'll use mine," her head shook as annoyance saturated her words. The flick of her lighter bounced around the car, followed by a plume of smoke falling casually from her lips. "So," she continued. "Good job killing," she gave a nod as though she had just complimented my driving skills. 

"I don't kill," I growled as I pulled the car over in a jerking movement that caused her almost to fall over.

"Really? Dude looked pretty fucking cooked to me," she shrugged as she adjusted herself back to the center of my backseat.

"You're in the wrong car."

"Oh, I don't know; it seems pretty cozy to me," she tucked her cigarette between her teeth and let her hand course over the leather of my backseat. "I've been following you for a while now; Tulsa, Austin, El Paso..."

"You've been following me?" My mind spun on the idea. "Are you a cop?"

A laugh escaped her lips. "No, blue isn't my color. I'm a..." she paused, but not to look for a word. She paused for effect, for theatrics. "I'm a grateful citizen."

"Get out of my car," I growled.

"You would kick a defenseless girl out of your car in the middle of the night," feigned horror filled her voice and expression.

"No, but I am kicking you out of my car in the middle of the night."

"Why, I've never..."

"And she is suddenly an 80-year-old Southern woman." I pulled my gun out and extended my arm so the barrel was just an inch from her face. It was against one of my rules. Like villains don't get backstories; never hold your gun within reaching distance. The only thing worse than a runner was someone that grabs at my weapon. But I could tell she wouldn't. "Just get out; I don't care for theatrics."

Her eyes didn't grow wide. She just took a long drag from her cigarette and exhaled, so it washed over my hand. "Fine, not one for warm greetings," she grumbled. Just before she shoved open the door, she added, "I'll see you around, slinger."

As soon as I heard the door slam, I smashed my foot into the gas. My tires spun a moment in the dry dirt of the roadside. I warred with my mind to not look back, trust no one and care about no one. But human nature got the best of me. In my mirror, the dust I had kicked up from the road clouded her shape as she stood there looking after me while taking another long drag from her cigarette as though she were exactly where she expected to be. My frustration merged with a sinking feeling that I would be seeing her again.