Five Dollar Wrench

Fury And Fate

I went to Doug's house the next night with gloves and a baseball bat, hoping I'd remembered his address correctly. I was there to bring him fury and fate. I'd never worked so hard to sneak into somebody's home before, but it couldn't be done. Everything was locked up tight.

That meant, fuck it, I was going in the hard way.

A quick smash through the basement window got me started. I managed to flip one of the latches open, but the other was closed, locking the window in place.

"Damn!"

With a long reach through the broken glass, I flipped the second latch and got the window to open.

That was my way in.

I wanted to ransack the place, but I couldn't. All I could see was the image of Doug's blubbering face. The sound of him crying still rang in my ears.

I searched the house, looking for any reason to steal anything. Or everything. I could easily hire sketchy movers to haul it all away. But all I found were the belongings of a guy who spent every dollar partying. There was nothing worth taking.

I kept searching anyway.

I found his stash of roofies in the kitchen, behind a bunch of expired protein powder and plastic martini glasses. To be precise, I found five little dropper bottles of Gamma-Hydroxybutyrate. Fucking GHB. Anybody who's worked at a shitty bar knows what to look for. They've seen guys spike drinks with that shit. It's colorless, odorless, and it's evil.

And I was pissed.

I mixed the GHB into everything in his fridge. The milk. The lemonade. The bottled water. I even put some in the mayonnaise.

Then I left.

I got two blocks away before I stopped.

I turned around.

I went back to his house so I could dump everything out. And I hated myself as I sent everything I'd drugged swirling down the sink. And I felt my soul sink, but I swore this was an act of strength, not weakness.

I couldn't punish Doug for trying to do to me what I was willing to do to him. Not even if I was doing it in revenge.

No.

I knew I was better than that. Better than him.

I grabbed some paper from his desk and used a thick black marker to leave a note that said:

"DOUGLAS CLARK,

YOU ARE A RAPIST."

I left the empty bottles sitting on the note on the kitchen counter.

I left a second note taped to his bathroom mirror. I left a third note taped to the headboard of his bed. Those two notes were identical to the first.

I left a fourth note in his dresser, tucked in a pair of his underwear. That one said, "When you find the fifth note, you'll realize how goddamn serious I am." But there was no fifth note.

I wanted him to tear the place apart, searching for something that didn't exist.

I needed him to fear me.

And I needed to leave, because my work there was done.

I'd taken all there was for me to take from Doug. Everything except...

No.

Not that.

Do it once? It's a thing you did.

But it only takes once for something like that to become what you are.

I was many things, but not that. I told myself I could never be that.

So, I walked away. Unsatisfied.

I walked away, cursing men with each step, and I said, "I'm done with them, but they're not done with me." I'd taken all I could take from Doug, but I needed more. And I knew there was no shortage of shitty men to take more from, especially in this shitty city.

Later that night, I went back to The Bitter End, looking for the hooker from the night before.

I knew a guy who needed to get got.

I knew a guy who deserved it.

I knew a girl who could help.