The Innocents Nathan Senthil (i wanna iguana read aloud TXT) 📖

underneath, so his body glistened with the sheen of sweat. The humid afternoon air blew through Ryatt’s dreadlocks, the heatwave cooling his sticky skin.

As he turned, the DJ had finally stopped talking and put on a song.

Buddy you’re a boy make a big noise…

Ryatt inched closer to the old guy on the ground. “Pin code.” His voice was surprisingly calm and authoritative as he stressed those words. Poverty, lack of means and opportunities, God, and even his own body, they had all been throwing so many hurdles in his path and staving off his victory for too long a time. No more. Right then, he knew he was crossing an important threshold into a point of no return. He was not gonna be bullied by this world anymore, no.

He was gonna be the bully.

The old man regarded Ryatt. “A little vermin sucking on a piece of candy ain’t gonna rob us,” he spat. “Fuck you!”

We will, we will rock you…

“Pin,” Ryatt repeated through his clenched teeth. “Code.”

“Oh… that supposed to scare me?” He put his hands up in mock fear. “Why don’t you run home to your momma, you little—”

The old security guard was unable to finish as a bullet hit him square on his forehead. Mouth hanging open, his head arched back violently and hit the ground with a thud. The shock froze his face, his pupils locked on the blazing afternoon sun, the eyelids not rushing to protect the eyes.

“What the fuck?!” Thomas’s voice roared behind him, but Ryatt didn’t break eye contact with the security guy’s head. He was curious as to why there was no spatter.

Ryatt put his foot on the dead man’s chest. With the tip of the shoe—the toe still poking out of the hole—he pushed the guard’s chin to a side. The bullet didn’t travel through his skull but slid across the top, tearing the scalp and knocking him out. The bastard was still alive. Fucking small calibers.

Ryatt hated half-assing anything. To finish the job proper, he lifted his gun and took aim.

“Lolly! No!” Thomas warned.

Ryatt looked up at him and smiled underneath his makeshift mask, but Thomas wouldn’t know because it didn’t reach his eyes.

Ryatt sang along, “Buddy, you’re a young man, hard man shouting in the street gonna take on the world someday…”

Then Ryatt pulled the trigger. The firm recoil travelled through his palm, forearm, and upwards. Like a powerful guardian of some kind patting his shoulder, comforting him when everything was utterly painful. It gave him hope, and oh God did it feel good for somebody who had been deprived of it their whole life!

Just to experience that ephemeral feeling of hope and strength, a fleeting sense of control and serenity—not out of sadism or anger—Ryatt squeezed the trigger twelve more times, synching it with the drum chorus of ‘We Will Rock You’ but the gun had become empty on the fifth squeeze.

Ryatt winked at Thomas whose jaw dropped; he peeled his eyes off his appalled friend and regarded his work. Though the security guard’s head was dotted with half a dozen holes, it did not explode, nor did his brains leak out. However, Ryatt knew the man was dead, because one of the bullets had popped his right eye.

Not looking away, Ryatt stretched his arm in the direction where a small figure loomed at the peripheral vision. He beckoned Leo over and dropped the empty revolver to hang from his forefinger, smoke coiling upwards. Leo retrieved it from him and replaced it with his .21. Fully loaded. But Ryatt aimed at nothing, the muzzle pointed loosely at the ground.

Ryatt, whose attention didn’t yet leave the dead body under his foot, spoke in a smooth tone, addressing the remaining security guard. “You want to live?”

There was a movement at the corner of his eye. The man must have nodded.

“Then answer the question this brave idiot failed to, but remember,” Ryatt finally looked at the shivering man, and lifted a finger, as if preaching the very meaning of existence to a devout, “don’t be a hero. Heroes end up with a lot of lead in their tiny brains.”

“B—but…” Tears streamed down the guard’s face, choking him and drowning the words. “I—I just got married. Baby’s due…”

Ryatt understood the security guard’s fear: it’s the fear of life. Newlywed, a little bun in the oven. Maybe they already bought a comfy pink cradle, tunes playing as some cute toy spun over it. Husband and wife huddled close to the baby’s crib, kissing each other, caressing the bulge and expecting to be overrun with euphoria when the little precious finally came into their lives.

What a picture-perfect image!

Ryatt didn’t give two shits though. If he couldn’t provide happiness to his mom, then no one should be happy. He wasn’t born to see others live fulfilling lives while his own deluged in hobo piss and goddamn ramen.

Ryatt said, “Give us the code, and I’ll let you go.”

“You… You are lying.” The man wept.

Ryatt looked at the pathetic thing kneeling in front of him. Did people really love their lives so much? They would cry rivers to just live, meaning they had a lot to lose. A lot that gave them a reason to look forward to the next day. Ryatt couldn’t relate.

“No, I ain’t lying. So best believe when I say.” Ryatt lifted the gun and thumbed the hammer back. “You got two seconds to answer me.”

The guard put down his head and lifted his hands to protect his face. As if bones and muscle tissue would deflect the cold bullets. Ryatt’s finger wrapped around the trigger.

Then the Whitey iterated. “Four, nine, seven, zero, five, three.”

* * *

During the whole getaway, Thomas didn’t stop giving Ryatt shit. “You killed an innocent old feller. We don’t kill innocents.”

Half naked, Ryatt sucked on