mcrazz1
01-29-2005, 10:25 PM
This is the first chapter of my book, Outrage: We The People. I'd like to know what people think of it. If you like, please post your thoughts. For a more detailed summary of the book, check out my web site, www.americanoutrage.net. Thanks for taking the time to read this.
Chapter 1
His sandpaper hands trembled on the cold smooth steel betraying his innate comfort with the shotgun. Sweat poured off of his brow yet his body remained chilled like a cold glass sweating in the warm sun. Anger and rage controlled every part of his sinewy body except for a steady finger hinged on the trigger of the shotgun. Revenge frothed in his mouth lusting after the symbol of his demise in the parking lot only fifty yards away. It was a shot he could make in the dark with his eyes closed.
The action was light on the trigger of the shotgun and Merrill Jackson slowly pulled back taking careful aim at his target. His right eye squinted over the sights and the perfectly aligned crosshairs. The shot would hit the clumsy oaf in the heart and he would be dead on the ground before he would hear the shot. It was the kind of justice Jackson craved. No, it was the kind of justice he needed to survive. If this symbol were removed, he could return to his old life. Six pounds of pressure was all he needed to pull the trigger.
Jackson ground his teeth together and he could almost feel the flakes of enamel falling onto his gums. The target was in his sights and he needed one more pound of pressure to complete his task.
“Do you really think killing him is going to fix anything?”
The voice shocked him causing the shotgun to drop off the unsuspecting target. Jackson knew that the deepest recesses of his conscience introduced the voice of his father throwing the last life raft in a desperate attempt to prevent the murder of an innocent man. Jackson’s eyes blinked rapidly trying to erase the image of his father and to clear a shooter’s eye blurred by tiny droplets of sweat on a humid August morning. His shoulders slumped ever so slightly. A part of him wanted to give in to the voice of reason but revenge continued to hold unrelenting.
His prey never saw the truck nor did he see Jackson raise the barrel of the shotgun through the truck’s window. The bank manager was as oblivious to danger as Jackson was when he agreed to take a bank loan after a poor growing season. The bead of the shotgun stayed in step with the gentle waddle of the rotund bank manager and Jackson knew he could blow his head off at any time yet silent resistance hung fiercely to his soul. Revenge suddenly needed reassurance. He spoke aloud to himself. “C’mon, Merrill. He’s the one that took your farm and family. Pull the trigger!” Jackson readjusted the shotgun into his shoulder and closed an eye taking perfect aim. He was running out of time. The bank manager was getting closer to the entrance. The trigger action moved steadily backward before his father spoke again.
“He’s not the reason you lost your farm and family. Why don’t you face it?”
Jackson’s red t-shirt had darkened to crimson with the sweat pouring out of his body. Sanity had almost been completely eroded, replaced by a carnal lust found in the most desperate of men. “You made your wife and son live with her sister because you were too embarrassed to let them stay with you in your one bedroom apartment. The bank manager is not the one to be blamed.”
He was at the precipice of fate. One choice would take him into the abyss while the other would lead him back into a life he despised. Three steps away. The target was plainly in his sights. Two steps. “Not the one to be blamed.” The words echoed pounding his head until it hurt. He stared more intently and he pulled the trigger dangerously close to the firing point. One step. The time was now. His resolve wavered and he watched the door open and then shut. His prey was gone.
At once, his body slumped into a limp pile of sinewy flesh and tears flowed freely while he contemplated how close he had come to making one of the worst mistakes of his life. He gathered himself slowly finally lying back against the seat contemplating his life and the mess it had become. He recalled the words of a lost father who would not approve of his actions on this day.
“A person’s life is defined in many ways. It can be defined in seconds, days, or years. It can be defined by single acts, multiple acts or the declination of an act.” Jackson finished the motto for his father. “But no matter how it is done, a person’s life is always defined by the choices he or she makes.”
He sat in his truck recalling the conversations with his father and the lessons he had been taught. The blame for his current predicament lied squarely at his feet and not at the wingtips of an unfeeling bank manager. Jackson laid the shotgun in the seat and drove away surprised and dismayed by his actions. He had almost taken a precipitous step over the edge and become morally bankrupt because of his willingness to blame his failure on others. He vowed to never let that happen again. He kept repeating the words of his father while he drove away unaware that his life and the fate of an entire country were about to be defined by the choices he was to make.
Chapter 1
His sandpaper hands trembled on the cold smooth steel betraying his innate comfort with the shotgun. Sweat poured off of his brow yet his body remained chilled like a cold glass sweating in the warm sun. Anger and rage controlled every part of his sinewy body except for a steady finger hinged on the trigger of the shotgun. Revenge frothed in his mouth lusting after the symbol of his demise in the parking lot only fifty yards away. It was a shot he could make in the dark with his eyes closed.
The action was light on the trigger of the shotgun and Merrill Jackson slowly pulled back taking careful aim at his target. His right eye squinted over the sights and the perfectly aligned crosshairs. The shot would hit the clumsy oaf in the heart and he would be dead on the ground before he would hear the shot. It was the kind of justice Jackson craved. No, it was the kind of justice he needed to survive. If this symbol were removed, he could return to his old life. Six pounds of pressure was all he needed to pull the trigger.
Jackson ground his teeth together and he could almost feel the flakes of enamel falling onto his gums. The target was in his sights and he needed one more pound of pressure to complete his task.
“Do you really think killing him is going to fix anything?”
The voice shocked him causing the shotgun to drop off the unsuspecting target. Jackson knew that the deepest recesses of his conscience introduced the voice of his father throwing the last life raft in a desperate attempt to prevent the murder of an innocent man. Jackson’s eyes blinked rapidly trying to erase the image of his father and to clear a shooter’s eye blurred by tiny droplets of sweat on a humid August morning. His shoulders slumped ever so slightly. A part of him wanted to give in to the voice of reason but revenge continued to hold unrelenting.
His prey never saw the truck nor did he see Jackson raise the barrel of the shotgun through the truck’s window. The bank manager was as oblivious to danger as Jackson was when he agreed to take a bank loan after a poor growing season. The bead of the shotgun stayed in step with the gentle waddle of the rotund bank manager and Jackson knew he could blow his head off at any time yet silent resistance hung fiercely to his soul. Revenge suddenly needed reassurance. He spoke aloud to himself. “C’mon, Merrill. He’s the one that took your farm and family. Pull the trigger!” Jackson readjusted the shotgun into his shoulder and closed an eye taking perfect aim. He was running out of time. The bank manager was getting closer to the entrance. The trigger action moved steadily backward before his father spoke again.
“He’s not the reason you lost your farm and family. Why don’t you face it?”
Jackson’s red t-shirt had darkened to crimson with the sweat pouring out of his body. Sanity had almost been completely eroded, replaced by a carnal lust found in the most desperate of men. “You made your wife and son live with her sister because you were too embarrassed to let them stay with you in your one bedroom apartment. The bank manager is not the one to be blamed.”
He was at the precipice of fate. One choice would take him into the abyss while the other would lead him back into a life he despised. Three steps away. The target was plainly in his sights. Two steps. “Not the one to be blamed.” The words echoed pounding his head until it hurt. He stared more intently and he pulled the trigger dangerously close to the firing point. One step. The time was now. His resolve wavered and he watched the door open and then shut. His prey was gone.
At once, his body slumped into a limp pile of sinewy flesh and tears flowed freely while he contemplated how close he had come to making one of the worst mistakes of his life. He gathered himself slowly finally lying back against the seat contemplating his life and the mess it had become. He recalled the words of a lost father who would not approve of his actions on this day.
“A person’s life is defined in many ways. It can be defined in seconds, days, or years. It can be defined by single acts, multiple acts or the declination of an act.” Jackson finished the motto for his father. “But no matter how it is done, a person’s life is always defined by the choices he or she makes.”
He sat in his truck recalling the conversations with his father and the lessons he had been taught. The blame for his current predicament lied squarely at his feet and not at the wingtips of an unfeeling bank manager. Jackson laid the shotgun in the seat and drove away surprised and dismayed by his actions. He had almost taken a precipitous step over the edge and become morally bankrupt because of his willingness to blame his failure on others. He vowed to never let that happen again. He kept repeating the words of his father while he drove away unaware that his life and the fate of an entire country were about to be defined by the choices he was to make.