[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.]**