Free Dead Nolte by Borne Wilder

He had a lot
to offer those around him, and it was obvious to him, those around him were
clearly in need of mentoring. Had anyone shown any interest or the proper
respect, he would have been more than willing to distribute his gift and
generously instill his wisdom unto anyone he found worthy of his precious
insights. He would have mentored the shit out of them.
    What Nolte had, couldn’t be found in books. What he had,
he’d earned with dedicated study at the School of Hard Knocks and the Library
of Common Sense. It hadn’t come cheap either; it had been bought and paid for
with blood, sweat, and tears. He had come by it the old fashioned way, the hard
way, either by someone pounding it into his head or kicking it up his ass and
by God he thought he deserved some consideration and appreciation from those,
unwilling to trade punches with life.
    The people who had come and gone in his past would have been
so much better off, had they only opened their eyes to his vast and varied,
experience and wisdom. Had they shown even a little respect or even the tiniest
interest, he might have fast-tracked them around life’s obstacles and put them
on the path to greater things. He could have bridged the emotional pitfalls and
helped them avoid countless injuries to heart and soul. All that for the low,
low price of a little respect.
    It irritated Nolte, to no end, to see morons stumbling
through life, unable to even guess at what was up around the bend. Idiots,
blissfully ignorant of their own shortcomings and limitations, thinking their
can-do, glass half full, tomorrow’s another day mentality would carry them
through the harsh realities of life’s day to day mind-fuck. It was wishful
thinking on their part, at best. A letter to Santa Claus would produce more
tangible results.
    This is where Nolte’s involvement would’ve come in handy. He
could’ve really put them ahead in the game by leaps and bounds, were they to
offer a respectful and appreciative ear to a few moments of his instruction.
    More than once he’d told himself, that these unwitting,
ungrateful fucks had no business breathing the same air as him. As a matter of
fact, he felt that every swinging dick on the planet should thank him
personally, they all, owed him a bit of gratitude, he could have reduced their
numbers greatly on many occasions, had he had a mind to. He could have put them
down like dogs and raised a toast with half full glasses of their own blood.
“Tomorrow’s another day motherfuckers! Drink up!”
    Rampaging snipers don’t climb clock towers; they are driven
up them by the stupidity that surrounds them.
    There were so many times in his life, Nolte had thought
about climbing his own ‘clock tower’ and cause lesser men to trample his grapes
of wrath. They would dance and shit themselves to the wonderful sound of his
staccato gunfire. ‘Bust a move, bitches.’ He would say, with his cheek pressed
against the smooth stock of his rifle. He would whisper it like Charlie
Bronson. ‘Bust a move, Bitches.’ They would dance for him and sing. Even as
they scurried like mice for cover, they would yell to one another out of pure
respect, “Get behind something, this asshole can shoot!”
    As a kid, Nolte had found a sheet of plywood behind their
tool shed. It had been pressed into the ground by weather and time. Hoping for
a garter snake, he’d flipped the rotting wood over, but instead of a serpent,
baby mice ran in every direction. His heart raced and he’d leaped into the
chaos with both feet. Pumping his knees like pistons, he stomped them in a
dance of brutal, hysterical, exhilaration, though, he was quite careful not to
let any run up his pant leg. His mother had told him many times, ‘to be bitten
by any animal, was instant rabies’. Shots in the stomach had been a major fear
of Nolte’s, throughout his childhood.
    The mouse stomping had been a mad minute, which had resulted
in a rush of unfiltered excitement and pure power, which