Fire and ice

11:16 a.m

Tami had left an ice pick on the bar near the garnish tray. K-Rad picked it up and put it in his pocket. He sucked the last few foamy ounces from his Shiner Bock longneck and walked outside to once again admire his handiwork. He looked southeast, and the horizon in that direction was now completely shrouded in a haze the color of pencil lead. What fun! Thousands of people were dead now, all because of K-Rad and his perfect plan. This was just too cool, and there was even more amusement yet to come.

K-Rad wanted to be arrested, the sooner the better, so why wait for the authorities to put two and two together and figure out he was the one responsible for the Nitko explosion? Why not just open fire on the lunch patrons at the Retro and expedite the whole process?

The idea had come to him halfway into his second beer. The Berettas were in the car, and he still had plenty of ammunition. No point in all those bullets going to waste. He would drink another beer or two, until the joint was good and crowded, and then he would go at it with a pistol in each hand. He would jump behind the bar and kill Tami first, and from that position would start picking off customers. Someone would use a cell phone to call the police, and when the cops got there K-Rad would walk out with his hands in the air and surrender peacefully. Perfect.

On their way to the Retro’s entrance, a young couple stopped where K-Rad was standing. College students, K-Rad thought, taking a break between classes. The guy had a goatee and diamond studs in both ears.

“Hear anything about the fire?” the young man said, gesturing toward the smoke with his thumb. He was sucking on a cigarette, trying to consume as much of it as he could before going inside. His girlfriend stood beside him with her arms folded, obviously impatient with his vice.

“Nothing yet,” K-Rad said. “I’ve been sitting at the bar watching the news. I’m sure they’ll get to it eventually.”

“Tyler, can we please go in now? I’m starving.” The college chick had a tight knit shirt on and very short cutoff jeans. Daisy Dukes, they called them, after a character in a largely forgotten television show from a largely forgotten decade. She had a pretty face and a nice body.

“Let me finish my cigarette, babe,” Tyler said.

“You need to quit that vile habit. You smoke and then you want to kiss on me. It’s like kissing an ashtray.”

“A sexy ashtray.”

“That makes no sense at all.”

“Go on in and get us a table. I’ll be along in a minute.”

She stalked away without saying another word. Once she was safely inside, Tyler turned to K-Rad and said, “Women.”

“She’s very attractive,” K-Rad said.

“Yeah, and she’s right. I really do need to quit smoking.”

“You guys in college?”

“Yeah, CH State, but I’m planning on transferring to the University of Florida when I get my associate’s degree.”

“Sounds like a good plan.”

Tyler dropped his cigarette on the pavement and crushed it with the toe of his sandal. “I better get on in there before she starts freaking,” he said.

K-Rad pulled the ice pick from his pocket, gripped it tightly, and jammed it into the side of Tyler’s throat. Blood pulsed skyward, as though being shot from a squirt gun. Must have punctured an artery, K-Rad thought. Tyler fell to the sidewalk, twitched a few times, and then lay still.

“Now she’s really going to start freaking,” K-Rad said. He dragged Tyler’s limp body behind a stand of ornamental shrubs and walked toward his car to get the Berettas.