This Man

She did not claim him. Turned her back away. Said she didn’t know him. She knew a guy once. Used to bring her flowers every day. He’d dance with her under the moonlight at midnight. Told her she was something special; pure. Confessed his love to her. That was the man she knew.

Not this. A killer. Murdered all kinds of people across this great nation. Gas station hold ups. Bar fights. Waiting in parking lots for men to come out and meet their maker.

He liked to kill bikers.He’d drive down 30 at night with his window down and a sawed-off shot gun in his lap. Creeping up to them in the dark. Open fire. It was almost like a game he played. Extra points if there was a woman on the back. Arms wrapped around him. He’d aim for his head. Shoot at will. Watch the bike wreck on the highway as he drove off. Flicking his cigarette out the window and watching the lit butt bounce on the road. Then he’d turn on the radio and listen to gospel music.

Like I said. I don’t know this man. He is not the one I married, she said. You think you know some people. You don’t. You really don’t, she paused. No sir. I do not know this man.

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