[Previously in Those I've Killed So Far... the streetcar described his journey from Czechoslovakia (where he killed his creator, Veroslav Skoda) to the United States (where he killed seven innocent dock workers). This week, the streetcar suffers from a crisis of the spirit--but will this newfound conscience mark an end to his killing spree?--Eds.]
Chapter 2: What a Pity
My days, they are filled with a monotony. My tracks never deviate. I start at one end; I stop, go, stop, go, stop... then repeat the process, only backward. Could this be one of the concentric rings of hell Dante forewarned? Are the well-dressed passengers with dead eyes merely a troupe of Satan's succubi sent with the sole mission of causing torment?
A disturbing thought enters the head. Perhaps my tormenters are also the tormented. Perhaps, they, like me, blindly follow the tracks of their lives; never stopping or slowing for the station potentially labeled "laughter"... "pain"... "fear." This thought, it disturbs me. It makes me pause before sampling their blood.
Why should I pause? I care nothing for humanity. But if this is so, why is my rage selective? I should have no regard for whether my victims are rich or poor. Yet, I lower my chassis to allow the old vagrant to climb aboard, while I snap my doors shut to fatally puncture the femoral artery of a young businessman carrying a Nordstrom's bag. I despise feelings. Death cares not. Why should I?
In the language of Czechoslovakia, my birthname has meaning. Skoda... "what a pity." I shall have no more pity. I shall only have lust. Lust for the decapitation, blood, and severed limbs of those I despise.
I lust for you.
**[Next week: The streetcar consummates his lust.]**