Rain on the Way Home (Blogophilia 9.7)

Rain was speckling the windshield, turning streetlights into starbursts and oncoming headlights into energy fields he didn't understand. Didn't matter anyway. A flick of a lever started the wipers on their slow, rhythmic pace. Click Clack...Click Clack....  As Jeremy drove, the car bomb scene replayed itself in time with the noise.Click Clack...Click Clack... Chaos and destruction was what his life kept coming back to. Chaos he was used to. Destruction was going to be a new experience.

Ole Harry here, back with you geezers  on WOFT.  You remember the Golden Age of Music of the late 1970's? Oh, wow. Don't I sound like your mother? The tone she would use talkin' about how Acid and 'Ludes would give you flashbacks? In honor of that sentiment, he is Jimmy Buffett with "We Are the People Are Parents Warned Us About..."

The steel drums coming from the speakers seemed to turn off the noise in his head. The rain began to slack off. Roswell Road was deserted as he drove closer into the city. All he wanted was to just blend into the pavement unnoticed so he could get started. In the darkness of the car his thoughts came back into focus. It was time to redress all the crimes and deprivations he had been exposed to.

So, how to go about it? Research everything first. Errors using inadequate data are much less than those using no data at all, right? Where had he heard that before? It wasn't HST. Some computer genius, he guessed.

 He'd never been around anything explosive. First stop will be going online and doing some research. He'd have to be careful, of course. Don't want to tip the hand too soon. He thought about hacking the neighbors WiFi connection, but he knew it would be better if he logged on from several places and use the IP scrambler app he'd found.  That way, if someone looked, it would seem the info request came from Canada or Ohio or something.  And even if they got past that, it would only lead to a Starbucks.  That was easy enough.

It's now 3:30 in the AM and you ARE having flashbacks?Well, take another hit from the Old Fart bong. That reminds me. We at WOFT haven't forgotten our roots in R & B and romance. Let me pull one off the back wall. Here is "Love Shack.."

"...I'm going down the Atlanta Highway...".

The old farm house! The old barn would be perfect for the build and and there were no neighbors. Jeremy had no idea if anyone was living on the property, but he would drive out later and find out. The light at Peachtree turned yellow. He just blew on through it. Just a couple more blocks to home and the beginning of the new phase. 

Finally, there was the target.  Those two stinking assholes...Walter Murray and William T. Jackson...just the thought of them made him sweat. They had conspired to ruin his life. He blamed them more than Mother or Sarah, who they claimed died in the fire. Sarah wasn't dead. He wasn't believing that. Mother just said she was sent away for being a temptation. She was dancing, but dancing with another man other than him. Images of the white room they talked to him flashed in across his field of vision.They badgered him into confessing to it, emphasizing Sarah's last suffering breaths. It was their fault he spent so long in that locked room.

Murray and Jackson.  Tried and convicted of false witness and hatred. The jury of voices recommended death and he agreed. He had thought about shooting them over the years, but he couldn't risk having any guns at the house Probation searched the place regularly. Bombs made more sense in that they could be assembled anywhere and then transported to a predetermined location, like a ghetto complex where no one asked questions about broken down cars and dead bodies.

The thoughts began to jumble again as he turned into the building lot. The decidedly Mediterranean motif of his place was so jarringly out of place here in the rich part of town. It fit Jeremy, though.  He was out of place anywhere anyway.