Happiness is a warm gun. As I sit here in the blasted building, with the sirens closing in from several different directions, I feel empty. But at least some of that emptiness can be filled by the satisfaction I get from stroking the rapidly cooling barrel of my P90 sub machinegun.
As the sirens come to a halt outside of the building, I rouse myself. "Gentlemen, it's been great fun, but now I must leave your castle," I say to the collection of corpses littered about the floor. The stupid illegal betting ring had thought that their motley collection of bodyguards would be enough to stop the vengeance of society from reaching them. Were they still alive, they would have had to rethink their strategy.
After leaving my message, I rapidly walk to the door, being careful not to tread on any of my most recent victims. One has to allow people their little dignities. I reach my supply cache outside of the door, and see the discarded shotgun that unlocked the door for me a few minutes before, and the trail of bullet casings leading into the room. They twinkle in the uncertain light of dusk like the streetlights used to twinkle from our flat window downtown. That feels like a previous life, now.
I reach down into the duffel bag, and pick up the paraglider chute. As I ghost up the stairwell in my gum soled boots, I hear the authorities opening the door from the street, five floors below me. I am not concerned, they have been unable to catch me for six months, and are unlikely to be able to do so tonight. And if they do, it would finally stop. I would be rid of the dreams, the night sweats and the strange, terrible compunction to clean, clean, clean.
I tiptoe up one floor to the roof, and deploy my chute ready to float away. But something stays my hand. A lumbering constable comes up the stairs to stare out onto the roof, but his eyes are not used to the dark and he does not see me. I squat on the corner of the building, like a dark gargoyle, and listen to the police moving about in the room underneath me.
"He seems to be accelerating," an authoratitve voice is saying. ""This group of friends was just playing poker, and look at what he did to them. It's so... sick!"
The perfidity of these twisted police sickens me. How can they be so in league with the criminals that they persist in these fictions! Society needs cleaning up, and they refuse do it! Who else can stop the rot?
As I take a running jump off the roof and glide into the night, my message stares out into the night sky through the plate glass windows behind me. On the wall, written in the blood of one of my victims "They made me do it"