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. 3522 Wilshire Avenue, in Sunnyside.

I was there to bring him fury and fate.

I'd never worked so hard to sneak into somebody's home before, but I couldn't. 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 his ketchup.

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.