The Chronicles of Bob: The Chronic Suicidal — Episode 10 — Temazcal [Part 2]

“There is a man who lives in NYC. He kills for you and for me…”

Bob the Chronic Suicidal returns this week with him exacting justice on those wicked.

Bob drove around the city for a while, thinking. His mobile phone had constantly been ringing since he left the house. No doubt it was the last few relatives trying to reach him. Probably hoping he had finally killed himself and they would be left with the remaining inheritance and payouts. Vultures he thought.

Bob came to his new hang out spot, since most of the guys at work never bothered with him, nor did some of his friends. It was his place of solitude, his gateway to forgetfulness and he needed it now more than ever. This particular bar had come to help him battle against his depression, which was contradictory in the fact that his alcoholism wasn’t from depression, it was just how his family was. “Luck of the Irish” he had supposed.

He pulled up a chair at the rail and sank his heavy head.

“What’ll it be?” asked the bartender.

She was cute, the kind you could get to know. The kind you could do a lot of dirty things to. That was the last thing on his mind, but still, he gave a smile in reply. “Two shots of house vodka, please.”

Two shot glasses appeared and in an instant, they were gone. Bob signaled for two more.

“Rough day?” she asked.

“You could say that,” he replied.

“Well, let me know if there’s anything I can help you with, hon.” The bartender said, giving him two more shots of vodka. Then like the wind, she was gone, walking away to help other patrons.

Out of hardwired habit, he checked out her ass and gave a smirk and shook his head.

In the corners of his eyes, he saw a few unsavory folks that sat around the joint. Some he knew well enough by their conversations they’d have with some other guys that they would meet. He’d never intentionally listen in, but when it got to talking about raping women, molesting kids, and luring unsuspecting folks. He came to give a damn. He had given anonymous tips to the police, but he figured that some of them had connections. Considering when they’d all meet at this time of the month, there were quite a few dressed in flashy suits and then some. It was like the Rapists of the Round Table. The only thing that was missing was some poor sap being bound and gagged in the middle and them gangbanging whoever.

Bob had about enough of all the kiddie talk they were having. Of course, nowadays he didn’t give a rat’s ass if they noticed him or not. He had a new way of life. A new way to discipline folks. Justice to serve to those deemed wicked. He would be the voice of those hurt and those silent. Soon he thought, soon the world is goin’ to be a whole lot brighter without you, sick fucks.

He signaled the bartender for a few more rounds. While he waited for his drinks, he went over to the jukebox that was in the corner, just near where all the pedophiles and rapists sat. They cheered, toasted, and were having a grand old time recanting their latest tales of despicable acts. He cringed as he stood there making his musical selection. A few took note of him and looked him over. He felt as if he was either being killed visually, groped, or fucked in one of their minds. His stomach turned in disgust, or maybe it was the vodka on an empty stomach?

One by one, he chose a few songs; setting his mood, setting the atmosphere. The prelude to murder. He went back to his seat at the bar. He slammed two shots, then three. He was getting dizzy and fast. He signaled the bartender one last time and ordered a beer.

“Are you sure, hon? You look like you’re about to pass out.” She said.

“Don’t worry about me, sugar.” He smiled.

She came back and gave him his drink.

“Thanks, darling.” He raised the mug to her. He pulled out all the cash he had in his wallet and left it for her. He called her over, “Here you are, sweetheart. You’ve been great.”

She smiled, “Aw, well thanks! I hope your day gets better, hon.”

Bob shook his head, “Nah, it’s not. There’s work to be done.”

Then The Animals’ “House of the Rising Sun” began to start playing. “I suggest, though, you get somewhere safe. Things are about to get ugly.”

Her eyes turned to horror and terror, and she started to flee for the backroom when she saw Bob take his knife out and head for that round table full of sickos.

“Who the fuck are you? We’re busy here!” cried one of the bastards, shooing Bob away.

“You’ve done enough raping women and kids. Now you’re all about to get fucked by death!” Bob said.

Their eyes all widened with terror as they saw the first man, a rather large round one, get his throat slit open. Blood sprayed their faces, their clothes, their food. He was the first. They tried to scramble a retaliatory effort, but Bob quashed it quick. He overpowered them, stabbing them in the gut, in the groin, in the ass. He did to them what they had done unto others in the span of four minutes’ time.

Some people had stayed to watch, and some filmed it. Bob cleaned the blade using the tie of one of the wealthier ones. He had noted a lot of them had wedding rings. His anger raised even more.

Bob walked back over to his seat at the bar, staring at the mirror on the wall in front of him where he saw a bloody demon of a man. He raised his glass of vodka up and drank it.

Behind him, police officers had already come in and swarmed the place. “I waited long enough,” he said.

He could feel the wraiths coming for him. “Not today…not tomorrow. I am a slave to no one.” Bob raised his knife.

“WEAPON!” an officer shouted. Others shouted orders for him to “drop the weapon.”

The wraiths came through the walls, one by one. They all stared at Bob inquisitively. Then, a strange thing happened. They gathered up the souls of the pedophiles, molesters, and rapists, dragging them away; they kicked and screamed. There remained one wraith.

“Are you waiting for me?” Bob asked.

“It seems we’ve reached an understanding.” It said.

Bob couldn’t tell if the being was grinning or what. He had sensed it in the way it spoke and offered one in correspondence.

Slowly Bob lowered the knife back into its sheath. “Sorry boys, I guess I am needed after all.” At that moment, he slowed down time and walked out of the bar into the night. The last song that finished playing was “Pace is the Trick.”


For Episode 10 — Temazcal [Part 1] Click here.


THE CHRONICLES OF BOB: THE CHRONIC SUICIDAL IS AN ONGOING WRITING PROJECT BY ROBERT J. S. T. MCCARTNEY, HERE AT A.B. NORMAL PUBLISHING.
THIS ONGOING STORY IS A WORK OF FICTION. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME.

Author: Sincados

Writer, gamer, foodie, brew enthusiast, and awesome dad. Also likes to make explosions...but not in any particular order.

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