Gaberiel: The Killer

I kill. The people, they love me for it. Heck they pay me for it. Murders, rapists, mob bosses, child pornographers, drug lords, gangbangers, dirty politicians, you name it. Any and every sadistic fuck in this district. The click-clack of my thousand dollar square toe shoes echoing off the rich mahogany might may as well be the tic-toc counting down to a conviction. I am Alexander, Caesar, and Achilles. My word is my sword slashing through corruption and injustice. My word is truth. I am truth. I am justice. Ye though the city walk though the shadow of the valley of death, it shall fear no evil. My rod and my staff, they comfort thee. I am God. I say who lives. I say who dies. I am a killer, in a suit and tie.

Mayor Kwame M. Kilpatrick is a devil. He has sucked money out this city for eight years. He stole the election. He’s extorted, laundered, covered up, and blackmailed. He has no regard for the law, but today he will. Today he will meet God, and God will kill him.

I paced the stained mahogany courtroom floor as the light beamed in from the afternoon sun, and shined down on my custom made Italian suit. I had stained this floor myself with conviction after conviction, confession after confession. In the cracks and holes on the floor beneath the defendants chair were the tears fifteen to twenty, twenty-five to life without parole, and the death sentence. I put those tears there. That chair had seen men’s lives destroyed, families ruined, and justice served.

My voice filled the stagnant air, the air that tasted and smelled like old wood. “Mr. Mayor, what is your association with Tamara Green, also known as Strawberry?” A former Florida A&M offensive linemen, 6’5’’ and about 270 pounds, this devil didn’t know fear. His legal team was composed of eight of the best defense attorneys in the country. Alabama, Connecticut, Utah, California, attorneys came from all over the country for this motherfucker.

“She attended a party at my home,” he stared back. His stare was a challenge. His smirk told me he wasn’t scared. The Detroit style pinstriped suit illustrated his arrogance. It was fitting though, because he had pimped the city.

“She attended a party…” I responded. That wasn’t the answer I wanted. He knew that, and I knew that my question wasn’t going to get the answer I wanted. “She attended this party…as a guest, a waitress, what?”

He was still smirking, “She was a dancer.”

“She was a stripper at your party,” I corrected him.

Tamara Green had worked a party at the mayor’s house in September of 2006. She’s dead now. Reportedly she’d gotten into a fight with the mayor’s wife after getting caught going above and beyond the duties of her job.

Just then one of my assistants came running though the courtroom’s double doors, sweating and panting. He motioned me to come over, and whispered in my ear. The blood was rushing from my face as I asked the judge for a recess.

“For what cause?” he asked.

“My daughter’s been shot,” I said.

The devil sat, with a steady fire gleaming in his eyes.