Free The Creep by John T Foster Page A

at least two escape routes. He was dropping people like flies. The deadly 9mm Glock-17 had almost pinpoint accuracy. He fell in love with the gun. Extremely powerful, the Austrians made the gun using seventeen percent non-metallic polymer, making it really light - it weighed in at twenty-three ounces. This was one heck of a gun. You could drop this baby from a helicopter at three hundred feet or leave it buried under ground for a year and it would still work. No wonder New York City was the first police force in the country to buy a thousand of them.
    Bishman came across some twenty or thirty blacks raping a white girl. Her boyfriend was putting up one hell of a struggle. Bishman fired one shot at him and put him out of his misery. After that he let the blacks get on with it. The time wasn't right to be caught with his trousers down.
    In Brooklyn looters were driving cars right out of showrooms without even opening the plate-glass doors. In Queens a liquor store was completely emptied in under four minutes. The youths had organized themselves like a chain gang and cases of booze were shooting down the line like greased lightning, straight into the back of a pick-up-truck they'd commandeered ten minutes earlier. The driver was still lying in the passenger's seat with a bullet in his head, blood gushing from a gaping wound you could put your fist through.
    Bishman continued his bloody tour of the city and came across a gang of youths who were lining up to gang bang a girl in a Seventh Avenue parking lot. Bishman joined the line, he was about ninth. Every time someone finished humping, a big cheer went up. The staying power of some of these black guys was incredible but others in the line grew so impatient they jerked themselves off right there and then. That got rid of three of them. It was nearly Bishman's turn. God knows how many guys had gone through the girl before Bishman, but it certainly wasn't a case of sloppy seconds.
    Bishman's turn came. The guy in front dismounted, everyone cheered. Bishman was just getting ready, he was about five feet away, keeping well out of the guy's way, when the girl exploded. Jeeeezus, Fucking Shit. She didn't explode literally, but she had a volcanic eruption between her legs and a vast column of steaming hot jism shot past Bishman, just missing him. There must have been over a gallon of the stuff, all building up inside of her, and something had to give. It did, with the strangest slurping and gushing noise Bishman had ever heard. Bishman had never witnessed anything like it in his life before and he doubt he'd ever witness anything like it again. He gave her one. He didn't last long and she never said "Thank you."
    One of Bishman's 9mm bullets was kept for something special. He'd been waiting for years for the right opportunity to come along. Now it was here. He walked over to Fifth Avenue in the dark, and stood on the top step of St. Patrick's Cathedral. He waited 'till there was sufficient light from passing cars and pumped a single 9mm round into the head of Atlas on the other side of the road. The bullet went straight through the bronze sculpture and smashed the window behind. The window was replaced the next day; the neat 9mm hole in Atlas's forehead still remains today. Every time Bishman was in Manhattan he'd check that it was still there.
    One of Bishman's victims was a guy driving a Plymouth. Bishman shot him through the heart when he pulled up to investigate a burning car blocking his way. Bishman thought ‘ the bozo ’ s as dead as a dodo ’ as he put the body in the trunk and drove around Manhattan, the Bronx, Brooklyn and Queens before setting fire to the car at the end of two action-packed days.
    From what he saw, Bishman calculated there were over a thousand stores with their windows shattered, three times that many cars burnt out and well over a hundred and fifty killed. The more he thinks about it the nearer he puts the figure to five hundred, perhaps even a thousand -