Based on a true story, allegedly. Or maybe not.

(Warning, violent content)

Fourteen years ago. Give or take.

He read the text message, an address. He understood where it led. The previous nights conversation with two off duty cops had been as direct as the message. He recalled the details of the conversation as he pulled on a pair of gloves, tucked a ski mask into his pocket.

The location was in a suburb within a suburb, housing trust homes and where the address led to, more government owned housing. The people there were either in temporary situations, or transitioning from prison or beyond. In some cases, they were the worst kind of dependent. Those who did horrible things, who never went to jail. Or, if they did, it was menial. Mental health, usually being the gracious verdict to allow sinister behaviour to escape justice. An excuse of sorts or, a pass.

He did not care about the system. It was after all minions from within it who had now just sent him the destination. But why? It turns out the man who resides there, had been seen lingering near schools. Again. Despite, not being allowed to. Despite having been caught. Despite there being a known victim. A young boy, his innocence violated. Damaged, physically and eternally inside.

A shrink had once told him, “a raped child, is the symptom to another person illness.” He thought about that statement as he drove through the hot afternoon traffic.

The system does not care about victims. It’s meant to be impartial. Justice. Whatever justice is. Justice is a profession. Riddled with hypocrites and wealthy people who live beyond those they look down upon. Remember the magistrate who paid a dominatrix to sodomise him because of his impure thoughts about young school girls?

If such men, like the one at the address are sent to prison. It’s to protect them. Their victims grow into adults. Their victims have families. Then, there are those out there who don’t need to conceal themselves among the rank and file of professional obedience. The pretence of protecting. Protecting who? Serving who?

He pulled up. Extendable baton in hand. Police issue Magnum boots on. He knocked. A man answered. Predators don’t have a look. They are usually common. Often underwhelming. Disarming even.

“Yes?”

“Insert name here.”

“Yes, what are you doing here?”

He hesitated at the answer. What if he was wrong? What if it wasn’t the right person. For those who masturbate about violence, fantasy is one thing, Execution, especially under such circumstances requires a bestial objectivity. One can’t tinker and convene with any council of thoughts. Morality is in the deed.

Behind the man, a children’s bike.

“Do you have kids?”

“No. I live alone.”

Why was the bike there. Then he saw what he needed.

Costume companies put out catalogues. For school plays, theatre companies. They have age specific models. Little girls in leotards for dance performances, little boys as magicians and so on. Anyone who had dabbled in theatre may be familiar with such trade books. They can be thick and laden with photos. Advertising various costumes and paraphernalia available. To most the photos of children are innocent.

Innocent.

Alongside a pile of such magazines, tissues, some wadded. A jar of Vaseline. Fingers had clawed into, the lid lay nearby. The man may have just finished his afternoon delight, moments before. The man asked again, “why are you here?”

He mentioned that moment to the man, the time he raped a child.

The man backed up. He did not deny. His face contorted into pale apprehension. The extendable baton released. He hit the man, hard. Across the knee. Then again. The man fell to the floor. Withered, pleading.

Often they cry. They beg. This one, he sputtered. He explained in between his tears, why. It was so long ago. Then, he reasoned it was a mistake.

The baton bent on the third hit. Unreliable piece of shit. The man on the floor whimpered, holding his legs.

For a moment, he felt pity for the man. A sense of shame over feeling sorry for the pathetic sight beneath him. It’s an unusual thing, to hate so much. To want to destroy, and then feel mercy. Even for one who could do such a thing. Even for one who had done such a thing. Here he stood, watching, hearing. It was a pathetic sight.

Sputtering bubbles of fear. Self-preservation seems to be a trait, even for those who are apparently mentally unwell to be punished. They often know how to isolate, groom, target, conceal, escape and protect themselves. They know how to prey, pick the weakest and most vulnerable and even in such moments, they know enough to plead. Beg.

The man stood up, on wobbly legs. The man even reached out, looking for support. Arm extended, hands grasping as though his assailant may help him to stand. Once up, the man cried through his snot and wet eyes, “please don’t do this.”

He looked at the pile of magazines, the bike, the wad of tissues and remembered the description of how the child appeared in hospital.

‘…traumatic rectal hematoma…”

A left hook. Crack, The man fell over himself. A sloppy contortion of bone and meat. People land strange when they are knocked out, especially those who have never been in a fight or are untrained. The man remained still. Barely breathing.

Twisted thoughts went through his mind. One stomp of his boot could end it. Or maybe if left in such a position, nature would take it’s course. Instead, he did something he still regrets. He placed the man into a recovery position. Letting his body sort itself out, broken jaw and busted legs withstanding. The man would survive.

The drive home was a numb experience. The regret of not doing more, though the shame. The shame of feeling pity. Such a person does not deserve mercy. That’s easy to conceptualise. In the before and after. In the moment, it can permeate through the mind. His only regret, is feeling sorry for that man. Even to this day.

Maybe justice was served? Who knows. Justice like Liberty is depicted as a woman, Virtuous, blind with scales and a sword. She is just another whore for the State. Those scales tilts in it’s favour, that sword wielded only by it. Not for justice, but to protect itself. Justice, a myth.

That man probably gives a lot of parasites a steady income. Big money in support work for such violators. A cadre of tax payer funded leaches enable, and protect that man and his kind. The little boy, he would be grown up. The moment, forever.

Not a nice one. Just a maybe, true story. In another world, it would be easier to say openly true things. We don’t live in that world. We live in one of myths. Make believe. Money is king. The innocent never mater. That man, he probably plays video games all day, eats what he wishes. Never has to work again, walks free. The victims and the community support him, comfort him. Tend to his every need.

The little boy, he probably works his ass off, and is taxed to misery, to feed it. Justice and her scale, ya see. She doesn’t work for free either. She’s a high paid hooker. The content creators moan about client lists for Epstein Island, last year a film like Sound of Freedom, triggered people. But, it’s closer to home. No, grand conspiracy of wealthy elites or cartels of organised violence. Every day people, protected. Surrounded by profiteering grifters.

Just the story of some moments in time, a tale if you will. Do with it as you please.