THE TRIGGER TALE...part one

Not all killers are murderers. But all murderers are hunters –Apollos.


Ozi Francis was feeling very sleepy as he tried to fix his fatigued body into his reading chair. Sometimes in self-derision he called himself an arm-chair journalist. His best contemplative moments were spent in that chair – reading, writing, and critiquing. Still struggling with slumber he rubbed his eyes with the back of his left hand, as if telling sleep to give him a break. And most times when he did this sleep often went away; often times the sleep would be waiting for him in the bedroom or on the floor of the sitting-room.

The young journalist had never slept off in his chair – that talismanic seat of contemplation. He would never accept that notion of his talismanic chair, no matter how hard Funki, his colleague and chum, tried to convince him about that idea. He believed he could read, write and critique with the same intensity anywhere else as he would in his armchair. But, all who knew him very well believed otherwise. He might not be a celebrated writer but he was brilliant - a brilliance that smacked of death, particularly this night.

Ozi seemed to have a certain burden that he carried in his life – to nail those he called perpetrators and perpetuators. It even became a curious thing that more often than not he was present at one crime scene or another. He witnessed a creepy incident where a 33-year-old man attacked a teenager for having large breasts. The girl was only 16. The burly man grabbed the girl by her throat, punched her and threw her to the ground. He stood motionless, more out of shock than fear. He quickly dialed 911 and reported what was happening. What do I do now? Wait and watch this man rape an innocent girl? Or risk fighting a man that I am sure will knock me out in few minutes? What would i do if she were my sister or my girlfriend? He thought.

“Hey, mister,” he started as he walked slowly toward the scene. The man had torn off the girl’s blouse and camisole. The girl’s feeble resistance could not stop the perverted man from sticking out his nicotine-tainted tongue to lap on the girl’s breasts. He took a suck left and right as he groaned with animalistic passion. Now as he was removing his trousers and boxers at the same time [still working his mouth on the teen’s breasts] Ozi slammed a small metal object, his midget, against the man’s head. He fell backward with his cooked legs tangled in his trousers and moaned curses under his breath. Before he could raise his head to ascertain what had hit him another slam “wham!” struck him. He stood above the man with a bloody plank in his right hand, looking like a cold-blooded killer. His face was expressionless: no anger, no fear; he just stood there as if paralyzed by some violent act.



“Oh thank you sir!” the teen began gratefully as she gathered the remains of her dress. “You saved my life. You saved my body. Thank you. Thank you sir!” she spoke feverishly. Ozi did not hear a thing until the girl, in appreciation, embraced him from behind. He felt the soft touch of the girl’s breasts against his body. He sharply turned around; looking embarrassed, he gently drew the teen away from him.
“It’s Okay. Are you hurt?” he asked the girl.
“Not much, unlike the last time I was attacked,” the girl said looking disheveled. She told him that was not the first time she had been assaulted. Only a reduction surgery, he thought, would put the girl out of her misery.