Pedokiller

Chapter 3

The news medis has a special way of distorting facts. The man I had killed was seen as innocent. Even though he was a convicted pedofile who was about to claim another victim. So I claimed him as my victim. The newslady went on about his grisly murder infront of a child. I laughed at how ridiculous our world had become. They coddled these creeps.

If their children were being molested it would be an entirely different perception. They vilify me even though I'm an angle compared to these demons. It was my duty to rid the earth of this scum.

I went about my day. Some coworkers talked about the murder. I ignored their idiotic conclusions. They never suspected me. Even if they did they never brought it up. Some of them knew I was raped and killed my rapist. It was innaproprate to ask me about this just slaying.

I typed on my computer and called suckers on the phone. The drudgery of life continued. Days and weeks passed by like cars on the freeway. I knew I had to do it again. Society needed a lethal woman like me.

I expected this vile behavior out of men. It shocked me more to see women doing the same thing. I saw her on the news. A teacher molesting children in her middle school classroom. I knew I had to kill her. She had gotten a slap on the wrist for molesting a young man. The criminal justice system nearly always fails to prosecute women like they do men. That is where I came in with the death penalty.

I'm not a crazed vigilante. Im just a woman who cares about a lost society. I was barren from being raped. He took my gift of life. He made me dead inside. He made me jaded and full of hate, but at the end of the day I was to blame. I was my own rapist.

I allowed his pain to change me. I was a monster in women's fashionable clothing. My red nails painted with blood. My eyelids smeared with ashes from charred clothes. My make-up was the flesh of my foe. My hair stood with their screams echoing in my head.

There she sat in her car texting her boyfriend on the phone. Her face illuminated by the screen at night. She never saw the shadow of death appproaching her. She took pictures of herself and giggled like a schoolgirl. Her husband and children had abandoned her. I felt bad for them. I had stalked her for weeks just to get a taste of her blood on my lips. The lipstick of life was always bitter sweet.

I knocked on her window. She rolled it down. I pressed the cold steel of a six shot revolver to her trembling temple. Her lip quivered as she stammered.

"P-pl-please d-dont k-ki-kill me," she begged.

"Too late, cunt!" I screamed while pulling the trigger.

Her head slung to side as her brains painted the dash. She slammed her large breasts into the steering wheel. The horn screamed while I darted to my car. Her blood was running down my pretty face. I wiped it off with a wet wipe. I flung the used napkin into the trashcan in my car.

I emptied the trash at home. I settled into bed after a long hot shower. I had to cleanse my flesh of these nasty people. It became sort of my ritual to watch their blood flow down the drain. It was like my souviner that I didn't keep. I didn't want a trophy. I needed the memories of them dying. That was my prize. Along with all the innocent children I was saving from my own doomed fate.