"You're dead."

A shot splits the night. Parker leans off of his prey with caution at first, accustomed to enemies who would continue to rise even after having several rounds of ammunition pumped into them. But seeing the scarlet blood slowly staining the pale blue pillow case underneath the lifeless head, Parker smiles in spite of himself. This one was done. The small blond-haired girl, Parker's companion and so like his own sister, leaned against the wall and slid to the floor with a barely noticed thud. She stared in wide-eyed horror at what had gone on in front of her. The handgun in her own bag suddenly carried the weight of the entire world in its chamber, such was the power she saw in front of her. And she ain't seen nothin' yet. At the sight of her collapse, Parker races across the room to the girl and hoists her to her feet.

"None of that. Up now." She resists somewhat, wanting to sink onto the ground and be safe and quiet. Away from firing guns, dead rapists, and terrifying protectors. There would be no peace for Sarah. "You approached me wanting to look for these guys. Wanting to kill them, and you can't handle the sight of one man dying in his bed? What's wrong with you child, I thought you were made out of stronger stuff than that."

"Fuck you! That's not fair! You have no idea what this has been like for me."

"Whenever a woman says something like that to me, it makes me want to hit her. You've been warned." A look of hurt and anger registered on Sarah's face. This was going poorly. "Look. Between what they did to you, and to my place, and to Max; all four of those men are going to die. I just want you to understand that you really do not want to be present for them all."

"Hey, you can't say that."

"Listen kid - this guy got off easy. Real easy." He stared at her a moment, allowing the point to sink in. A look of grim understanding spread across Sarah's face. She would go home. She would go home and go to bed. She would be grateful for it in the long run.

Upon dropping Sarah back in Queens, Parker pulls over to a corner and consults his list. "Hmm, one more in Manhattan, east village, near my old place, funny. One in Brooklyn and one in Queens, right here in the neighborhood. Save that bastard for last."

Parker was secretly glad that Sarah hadn't had the stuff to watch him execute these fuckers. No need for a young kid like her to be completely stripped of all compassion before the age of eighteen., after all. Besides, with no witnesses, Parker could play. Ciao masquerade.

It was nearly three. He would have to hurry to do all he needed to do. Gunning the engine of the Harley which he has come so accustomed to (though is still uncomfortable about owning) , Parker roars to the island of Manhattan through the shadows, Death's Angel atop four cylinders.

The aparment building was in obviously poor condition. The fire escape provided perfect vantage over the window that should look onto his next new friends' bedroom. Peering inside, Parker saw two mortals knotted at the midsection like dogs in summer. How sweet. Watching more closely, the man (a middle-aged white man whom he assumed to be Clint Johnson) appeared to be beating the hell out of his lady friend while he had his way with her.

"Perfect," thought Parker "The guy's a career batterer." 'This should be therapeutic' hissed a voice at the base of Parker's brain, which he ignored. As the mortals ended their coitus, Parker watched in fascination as Clint dragged the woman, by the hair, to the bathroom, and tossed her unceremoniously into the running shower. She landed sprawled half in, half out of the spray, a knotted jumble of slowly flinching arms and legs. Clint then slammed the bathroom door closed, and Parker smiled a slow, fangy smile. His eyes took on a golden gleam as the mortal walked back into his room and started fumbling with something in his drawer, his back to the window. Barely able to contain himself, ten razor claws sprung from Parker's fingertips and he propelled himself bodily through the window.

"What the fuck?" exclaims Clint, as he is faced with a figure slightly smaler than him, but with glowing eys, claws, and dozens of shards of glass sticking in his clothes and out of superficial cuts in his skin...

"Shut up," Parker commanded, kicking the man in the Adam's apple. He flipped right over the bed, and landed momentarily out of Parker's sight on the other side. In the instant it would have taken him to round the bed and take the man's voice out of commision, he rose with a gun and fired three shots directly into Parker's chest. Parker smiles. Parker cuts the man's throat with a wave of his arm. The man falls.

Stooping to inspect his work, Parker momentarily mourns that he is having to rush through these so quickly. Taking but a few seconds to restore a bit of his strength which would otherwise be wasted all over the carpet, Parker leaves the way he came in, barely avoiding the cops, and setting a course for Brooklyn.

Jeremy Brown, a young black man in his early twenties, happens to be in bed when he hears his window being kicked in. He is still in bed when his face and stomach are kicked in, making breathing over the course of the next five minutes, and consequently the rest of his short life, rather difficult. He hears a stream of words 'almost hurt my dog you little fuck' and 'well if it was good enough for him, it'll have to be good enough for you.'

Parker took a good long ten minutes with this fella. He was a realtively small, wiry young man, so Parker takes immense pleasure in watching his arms and legs flail around while he is being thrown from one end of the apartment to the other. When through with his fun, Parker reaches into his coat and pulls out a roll of silver duct tape, peeling a strip off slowly. Fear registers in Jeremy's eyes, and only a cold, smoldering sort of rage remains in Parker's. In moments he binds the mans hands, feet, and mouth. Parker then opens the refrigerator door and pulls out food, trays, and anything else inside, leaving it in a tremendous pile of mess on the floor. The mortal begins to shake with terror and maybe even with understanding as Parker lifts him by the throat, and tosses him into the cold, white coffin. Delivering one last kick to the abdomen, Parker waves goodbye to the boy, who is at this point making inarticulate sobbing noises. Parker slams the refrigerator door closed, and begins to wrap strip after strip of duct tape around the appliance, which occasionally shakes, or lets out a muffled yell. He then tips it onto its side, making sure to leave it plugged in, and goes on with his night's work. Three down. One to go.

Twenty minutes later, back in queens, Parker rolls towards the home of Roger Chumley. Looking at the accomodations, Parker suppresses within himself great piles of disgust. In the place of what should be a dingy, rat-infested apartment building is a nicely painted white house. At least the other three were real dirtballs. barely more than fucked up kids who would do anything to make a little money. Kids who weren't doing the human race any favors, and whom may as well get yanked out. This guy was different. A human being, with a job, a home, pets, and kids, so said the telltale signs around the house. basketball hoop in the back yard - minivan - at least one son, but several kids. Sad. There is a dog in the front window, which Parker quickly confronts. They communicate wordlessly.

"You help me," Parker commands.

"Why?" The dog innocently questions.

"I give food." The dog appears to be convinced by this. Parker continues. "Get your master. Make him take you outside. Make him go that way."

The dog disappears for a long moment. Maybe five minutes pass before a light clicks on in one of the upper bedrooms. Parker conceals himself at the end of the block, behind a row of hedges. Within a few moments, a sleepy looking man in his early forties strolls down the street with the dog on his leash. Surely, this could not be the guy.

"Roger Chumley?" Parker whispers. The man stops dead in his tracks, looking all around him. "Is it you?" Parker demands. Making eye contact with him, the man slowly nods, seeming tounderstand his fate. The dog sits on the pavement, wagging his tail excitedly. Parker steps out from the bushes and drops a few pieces of kibble at the dog's feet. "I need for you to come with me, Mr Chumley. We need to talk."

"A-About what?" Chumley stammers. "I don't know who sent you, but-" with that, Parker reaches into his pocket for the one posession he requested of Sarah. He cuts the man's sentence off by unfolding a small photograph of the girl, which Chumley's eyes squint through the darkness to see. The moment of recognition strikes the man's face as if he were told it had been his own daughter four men had tortured. "I-" He says that one letter, and is silent.

"The time has come for you to be punished, Mr Chumley." Parker states. All light and hope drain out of the man's eyes, and he understands everything.

"Can I at least put my dog inside?"

"No."

Later in the week.

"And this is Cynthia Chu for Channel Nine News, telling New York City to watch its back! A string of brutal mirders has rocked New York City with four bodies surfacing in some very grizzly circumstances last Monday night alone. The most shocking and disgusting among these was of one Roger Chumley of Forest Hills queens. Chumley's body was found hopelessly mutilated, as if by some animal, were it not for the awful intelligence that obviously guided the crime. He was found in Flushing Meadows Park, hung from a tree by his own intestines. As if that weren't enough, the body's eyes, tongue, and genitals had all been removed. The location of the organs is unknown, though one clue was left at the horrible seen. In the victim's chest a simple, brutal message had been carved. "This is what happens to people who warn me." Police are still puzzling over the meaning of the terrible crime. Chumley had no known enemies, though organized crime links have been considered. It is rumored that police have brought in for questioning one Roberto Gio- *click*