Silhouette of Retribution
A man pushed to the edge fights back
His sister once described him as “a lot,” and although he didn’t take it as a compliment, he thought it explained him in perfect, succinct fashion. He was a lot.
A lot to understand.
A lot to handle.
A lot to take.
As he crouched in the darkened stairwell, listening for his moment to arrive, he considered whether these might be his last minutes on Earth. Lawrence was a veteran, and he didn’t fear danger, but he was acutely aware that what he was about to do might kill both of them.
His conscience had left him long ago, though, and he was beyond the point of no return. His precious granddaughter had been taken from him by a reckless gang of sociopaths, and as his obsession grew, he neglected his family, and lost them, too.
He had nothing left to lose.
The biker who had run over Lawrence’s granddaughter on a custom Indian got a slap on the wrist and was back on the streets with only probation. He had wrecked his bike and injured his leg, and for the few days he spent in the hospital, his buddies started a fundraiser and paid for his hospital bills and motorcycle repairs.
The biker’s name was Gene, and Lawrence had never felt a fury like the one that overcame him. Within weeks, Gene was cruising with his buddies and intentionally goosing the throttle when he passed through residential neighborhoods. He was an intentional noise-polluter. An act of low-level sociopathy Lawrence labeled it. And now, Gene was a remorseless killer. He had returned to the same careless, indifferent lifestyle that had caused Shawana’s death, with no regard for others.
Lawrence had been watching.
Sometimes he’d watch from a car, but he was careful to change vehicles regularly so he wasn’t recognized. Other times he’d hang out on a bench on the sidewalk, or in a doorway, or a storefront, hiding behind sunglasses and an assortment of hats. Everywhere the old man went, he had a motive. He was there to watch Gene.
“To stalk the biker,” his former partner had said when Lawrence told him what he’d been doing.
He’d seen Gene, a big man, rough-up a bouncer at a local club. He’d watched him park his bike in a handicap spot, drop litter in the parking lot, flick cigarettes into a kid’s sandbox and exhibit a general disregard for the feelings and concerns of others.
“And you took Shawana from me,” Lawrence thought as he watched the biker from afar one last time. “Guilty. And the sentence is death, maybe for both of us.”
There was no sophistication to what he was about to do . He just had to get up for it.
Lawrence bought a six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon at Silent Lake Liquor and walked the two short blocks to his rented place next to the park. Inside the grungy efficiency apartment, as dark fell, he swigged liberally on his PBRs, downing one after another. Lawrence had not consumed alcohol in years and by beer number three, his head was already swimming. He downed the last three anyway, then called up a playlist and pressed play, turning the volume all the way up.
The ear-splitting opening moments of Mudvayne’s “Dig” blasted forth and Lawrence began pacing around the room in a frantic fashion, waving his arms over his head, amping himself up. He smashed his fists down on his small bedside table and it collapsed. He tore at the blankets on his bed and flung them across the room. As metal music reverberated off his walls and into the hall, the old man went to another place.
It was a place he had not been in a very long time.
The night had arrived.
Outside his apartment in a yet-to-be-gentrified section of downtown, Lawrence had scouted the perfect location. His building had an unused exterior staircase leading from the sidewalk down to the basement. It was the perfect place to hide, and right along the strip where Gene liked to cruise on his bike.
And then he heard it. The distinctive rumble of Gene’s big v-twin Indian with a custom exhaust approached.
He’s coming.
The sound of the motorcycle grew louder and Gene revved his engine as he went through an underpass, and again as he passed an outdoor dining area.
Lawrence squatted in the darkened stairwell and a streetlight cast a trapezoid of orange light on the wall, painting a silhouette of the bat he gripped in his closed fists. He could have used a knife or even a gun, but he thought the bat would be more satisfying.
The motorcycle continued to approach and the man crept forward, climbed two steps, until he could just peek out of his hiding place at sidewalk-level.
It was Gene.
“He’s alone,” Lawrence thought.
He’d been concerned about whether to go through with it if Gene had company. Now, his anticipation was at a crescendo and his heart pounded thick quarts of adrenaline as he listened to the sound of the motorcycle and watched it approach. In his mind, he thought about Shawana.
The biker gripped his brake lever and began to slow for the intersection and that was the moment.
Lawrence sprang from his hiding spot and sprinted off the sidewalk, into the street. He had almost entirely closed the distance between them before Gene even noticed him. There had been a real possibility, if he’d been spotted earlier, he could have been stabbed or shot or maybe run over, but now, Lawrence had the upper hand.
He leapt forward with the aluminum bat raised high over his shoulder and brought it down with devastating force across the biker’s chest and upper arms.
The big motorcycle rolled forward without its’ rider and crashed into the brick wall of a coffe shop across the street.
In the distance, someone yelled out at the scene unfolding. The biker, Gene, a greasy guy, bald on top with a party in the back, screamed in agony as he lay on his back in the street.
The old man did not hear it. He was a silhouette of retribution in the streetlight’s glow, looming over the biker, merciless and hell-bent.
Lawrence raised the bat and brought it down again. And then, again, as a crowd of onlookers assembled. The savagery of his attack stunned them. He swung the bat until he had exhausted himself, and the crowd on the sidewalk had fallen nearly silent.
The biker lay in the street, bloodied and mortally wounded. Lawrence dropped the bat and it clanged off the asphalt. A young man stepped off the sidewalk and approached him.
“I don’t know what he did to you, man,” the young man said, “but you gon’ go to jail now.”
Lawrence returned the young man’s gaze as the sound of sirens approached. Bystanders held their phones in the air, recording video for their feeds.
“Was it worth it?” the young man asked.
Lawrence wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it was.”
Troy Larson is a writer, digital content creator, and broadcast veteran with hundreds of podcast and broadcast credits to his name. Reach out on Facebook and on Instagram.
Great story! Satisfying revenge.