“Then you shouldn’t have spawned those worthless, noisy, wastes of space" he mumbled under his breath as he closed the sliding door walking back inside.
Exhilaration, anticipation, accumulation of preparation. Steven stopped at the door, looked back, and flicked the half-gone Cigarette onto a pile of trash. Laughing, he easily descended the steps and quickly crossed the lot, heading toward his beat-up work truck. He didn’t even break stride as he fired up a cigarette, smiled around it as he flipped off Ed the 83 year old war veteran that lived on the bottom floor.
Steven flung the ruck into the seat and carefully set the black case in the floorboard. Climbing in he turned the key; the 304 revved and left a one-tire peel-out mark as the truck lurched into the street. Heading to the core of town, to the clock tower overlooking the schoolyard, and the mall across the road. He laughed, cliche that the clock tower would be the final chapter of his luckless, and struggling life. Steven envisioned the coming events. All those who joked, teased, and held him down in life would finally see he was something. Something that controlled life itself. To give or to take at his whim. He was both giddy and antsy to start, when out of nowhere a big blue and white blur entered the left side of his vision. Then thunder rocked the car, immediately followed by strange silence. Steven felt nothing as he lay on the seat, watching the blood pool grow larger.
The paper said he must have been heading to the gun club across town, where he had been a member for ten years. He must have not seen the light was red when he zoomed through the intersection, where the church bus smashed into his truck. The driver of the bus suffered no injuries, while Steven died at the scene.