Free Dead Nolte by Borne Wilder Page A

he’d never before
experienced. The memory of that raw rush of adrenalin had remained with him the
rest of his life, even forming much of his life. He longed for the metallic
taste of it and the thought of doing the same thing to people, had always held
more than a certain allure. It was an almost sexual desire. It called out to
him at times, in a voice that was almost too hard to ignore.
    POP-POP-POP-POP, they’d all fall dead. He envisioned the
poor gomers and goobers as they scrambled, bobbing in and out of his
crosshairs. POP-POP-POP-POP, they would drop like empty shit sacks as he
relieved them of their pain and suffering. Even so, through their fear and
panic, they would marvel at his accuracy. He would put the unwitting, ungrateful
mice out of their misery one after another until he, himself, was taken out,
jerking and flopping in a hail of bullets, as he struggled to squeeze off one
more shot. His name would echo throughout eternity. Oswald’s name would never
again be mentioned without his. When analysts discussed firing disciplines and
recoil recovery, they would be forced to use Nolte’s skills as a prime example.
    “That there is a respectable death.” Nolte said boldly, and
aloud. It was more to intimidate the little coward who lived in his head, whose
curiosity was slowly coaxing him into the open than to address the stink cloud.
Anytime Nolte pondered imprisonment or his own end, the coward would pop into
his head and offer self-preservation alternatives.
    He assumed the stink cloud could read his mind and Nolte was
quite sure it had been intimidated by his clock tower revelation. Probably more
than a little intimidated, right up until Nolte’s little fear monkey had poked
his fucking head out from behind whatever flowery, feather boa wrapped section
of Nolte’s brain that he used for hiding.
    The little coward had always poked his little bitch head up,
at the last minute, at the most inopportune times and fucked up every chance
Nolte ever had at the limelight. ‘Don’t do it, we might get in trouble! Don’t
do it, we could get hurt!’ If there had ever been a way to gag the little turd,
he would have done it long ago, he fucked up everything. Had he been given half
a chance, Nolte would have been famous; he had never been fond of the word infamous,
he would have been famous. Nevertheless, they would have written books and made
movies about him. He would have shown the world what real crazy was. They could
have locked him up next to Charles Manson, and he would have made Chuck his
bitch!
    He caught a glimpse of the little coward as it flitted
across his mind’s eye. “Happiness is a warm gun, motherfucker!” Nolte shouted
after him, trying to sound cold and calloused, in order to scare the simpering
pussy a safe distance away from his manly thoughts. 'Happiness is a warm gun.'
He had a T-shirt with that stamped boldly on the front. That’s what he would
have worn on the clock tower day.
    “It’s okay.” He told himself. “If everything goes as
planned, there’s still time. My nest egg will come through.” Nolte would be
respected, if it was the last thing he did on Earth.
    “A little respect Motherfucker!”   Nolte screamed boldly, yet, he visibly
flinched as the shadow suddenly darted closer. It farted. Burnt pork chops this
time.
    Nolte suddenly saw himself as a small boy, at night,
silhouetted against his mother’s burning garden shed. The sound of his sister’s
screams had been replaced by the frantic chanting of his mother. “Where is your
sister, Nolte? Where’s Mattie? Where’s your sister, Nolte? Where’s Mattie?” He
remembered the look of horror on his mother’s face and his inability to answer.
He remembered he’d squeezed the two kitchen matches he still held in his small
hand, so hard they had broken the skin of his palm.
    “She bumped her head, Mommy.” Little Nolte said, as he
stared into the flames and wondered what fire would taste like.
    Nolte quickly pinched