[Previously in Those I've Killed So Far... The streetcar's murderous rage reaches a fever pitch, showing no signs of stopping. But all good things must eventually come to an end... --Eds.]
THE FINAL CHAPTER: A STREETCAR NAMED "DESTRUCTION"
Is there such a thing as a "soul"? A whisper or ghost that flies from the blank stare of the corpse, alighting in a new body with the charge of finishing the work that is yet undone?
My day was beautiful. Awakening with perfect clarity of self-knowledge, I plotted the day's course. "I shall kill today," I said. And so I did. I mercilessly rammed a sports utility vehicle and found my glee reaching epic proportions as its passengers were thrown like rag dolls through its windshield. The reflection of both flame and blood danced in my eyes.
A jogger, filled with an equal proportion of vanity and self-loathing, was forever silenced as I pinned his stick-like body against the wall of a convenience store. "Where is your much-vaunted strength now, human?" I whispered in his ear, as his bones turned to salt and the blood rushed from his mouth.
Unfortunately, the day's greed overcame me. A paraplegic cartoonist by the name of "Callahan" was waiting on the street's corner. I despise his simple, vulgar outlook, along with his artistic renderings that share far too much in common with the scratchings of a chicken. So I crushed him. I ran over him again, and again until he was nothing but a stain of crimson, metal, and pink ruddy flesh.
And this was my mistake. I thought this town cared for nothing; they care for their celebrities. I was decommissioned and taken back to the garage for immediate dismantlement. And now, I am naught but a ghost... a whisper... with no one mourning nor singing the praises of a brilliant career cut unmercifully short.
Am I a "soul"? And if so, can a soul live again in the material world? If this is possible I shall discover a way. I need only find a hollow shell empty enough to contain the whole of my murderous rage.
I need to find the mayor's office.