Murder of the Masses

by

tuck

          Soaking the concoction in butter was the final phase.  Alvin Grimes glanced down at the finished product. His algae eyes rolled. A pale, freckled hand released the wooden ladle and groped into the mixture. Grimes hummed. He enjoyed the texture.  Weighed its sustenance in his palm. "Oh, " a cat like thrill rose from his throat as he brought a dollop to his nose. His nostrils flared, a stallion at orgasm, from the aroma.  "Incredible!" Grimes cried out to the universe from his hovel.

 

          Grimes parted his fingers. The deadly tidbits dribbled through the gaps into a canvas sack at his feet.

          So easy, he thought. Arsenic a few odds and ends. Ha! A special meal. For my special party. For my special friends. So simple after all. So simple once you’re focused.

 

          Alvin Grimes lifted the dirty, copper pot off the stove and poured the dregs into the canvas sack. His mind cartwheeled in pleasure at the enormity of the deed to be performed.

 

          And who would suspect, Alvin Grimes? He mused. Quiet, never rocks the boat, never makes waves, never cries foul, ‘Mr. Happy’ on the side lines. "No one."

 

          And I'm not the only one that hates them. Nope. “Oh,”   others complained about the staring, day after day, week after week. The postering. The strutting back and forth. The infuriating nods at everyone, everything and nothing. Insipid spies, marking every move. “Oh,” there have been other complaints, mild protests, but who had the courage, the fortitude, the focus. “Oh,’ No one. Only me.

 

          He bound the sack with a noose of twine, hoisted it and exited the flat. His heels clicked on the metal stairs as he descended to a rear alley.

 

          With both hands, Grimes shoved the canvas sack into his battered Pontiac. He revved the engine for several seconds just to feel its power, then eased off the accelerator. Amateurish, he chastised. Never draw attention to yourself. He headed for the freeway and took his place in the southbound traffic.

 

          “Oh,” not a trace of fog, he sighed drumming the steering wheel as he drove down Bay Shore Freeway.

 

          My fellow workers, do nothing but complainers.  Condescending eunuchs, he thought. None were willing to take a stand. None would invest the time, or money.  And, “ Oh,’  It hadn't been easy. It hadn't been easy at all.  

 

          Six months. and five hundred twenty-seven dollars and thirty four cents for my private pilot's license. The over-night jaunt to Nevada for the special ingredients. Permission for a solo, night flight. Oh, no. It hadn't been easy. No this campaign wasn't a lark. Fun and games. It took a man of dedication and  purpose.  A focused man.

.

          Alvin Grimes parked the Pontiac near the control tower of the Sunnyvale airport, hefted the sack into the passenger seat  a high-wing Cessna 170, preformed the preflight check and taxied to the apron of the runway.

          "4380 Zulu awaiting take off instructions," he said.

 

          "You're clear for take off, 4380 Zulu."

 

          Grimes hit the throttle. Airborne, he banked sharply and flew north pass San Francisco. Over Alcatraz, he turned south and back over the city.  Setting the automatic pilot on south-south west and began a controlled descent. He slid the passenger’s window open and ripped the twine from the canvas sack.   

 

          Two hundred yards above the Ferry Building, he eased the  mouth of the sack into the open window. Above the Ferry Building he shoveled handfuls of kernels into the night.  He titled the wings of the Cessan and repeated the process again above Fisherman’s Wharf,  Coit Tower and then over China Town. 

 

 

The tip of Grimes  tongue darted across his lower lip. His pale, freckled hand drew back the throttle. The Cessna dove into the heart of downtown San Francisco. Grimes lifted the sack and shoved the mouth through the open window and dumped the rest of the bags contents.

 

          Seconds later the canvas sack went limp in his hands. Grimes shut the window and took over the controls.  At three thousand feet he leaned back in the seat. "Oh," Grimes cried from his universe,  his flying sleigh. "Oh, die bastards. Die! I hate pigeons. 

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© 2019 Tucker Spolter