Kitty Krunch
by T. G. Roettiger
part 1
Looking back, I remember that it had been a rough day at the gym. I was sparring a younger guy, hell, they were all younger, and he had really taken it to me. It was like I was fighting with buckets on my feet and I got brutalized. I wasn’t happy and didn’t really feel like talking with anyone. Still, I needed cat food. On the way home I decided to stop at Family Ag. It was one of those establishments found all over rural New England: A once legitimate agriculture supply store that was now trying to hang on by selling pet supplies, potted plants, and lawn ornaments. For all that, it wasn’t a bad place, and it was convenient. I pulled into the parking lot. There weren’t many cars in the lot. That gave me hope of a quick in-and-out with minimal human interaction.
Once I entered the store, I headed straight for the pet food area and kept my head down and my hood up. On the way, I saw Bobby Owen but did not look up, pretending not to notice. I pushed past him without slowing. If he recognized me, I couldn’t tell.
When I arrived at my destination, I was dismayed to find that my usual brand of cat food was sold out. As an alternative, I grabbed a four-pounder of Kitty Krunch, the cheapest of the cheap. Hypatia would give me an earful, but she would survive. I turned and headed for the check-out.
In spite of the near-empty parking lot, there was a bit of a line at the counter. The octogenarian owner, Fred Martin, was at the register. I knew this would not go quickly. Fred was a good guy and all, but he was one of those old-timer types who felt the need to look over his glasses, searching the keyboard for each individual number, his manner, and the duration of search, indicating that he had completely forgotten the layout of the keyboard since he had entered the previous number.
Worse still, Gordy Potts and his wife were directly in front of me. I had known Gordy since high school. He had always been an anti-government conspiracy type who liked to spout his “secret” knowledge that could “get me killed” if the government found out what he knew. It never seemed to occur to him that, given all the lunch-room pontificating he did, the government would have no problem finding him. I suppose it was possible that the government was just really inept.
As an (alleged) adult, Gordy stuck to his narrative and joined some wack-a-doodle militia group and was always carrying a handgun of some sort. His wife always carried one, too, even though she was not part of his militia group. Because of some torturous and convoluted interpretation of the Bible, Gordy and his buddies had decided that women would not be allowed in their militia. A woman’s job was to “support” her husband.
Gordy never passed up an opportunity to spout his militia’s creed and bizarre interpretation of the U.S. Constitution and his sect of Christianity. If no opportunity presented itself, he would make one. Store clerks, town officials, and school teachers for miles around dreaded the sight of Gordy Potts.
On this day, Gordy and his wife were in their usual uniform: Blue jeans, camo t-shirts, camo baseball cap and handgun stuck in the waist band of their jeans at the small of the back. Gordy’s weapon of choice was one of those polymer-framed, high-capacity monstrosities that were all the rage these days. Just spray-and-pray; no need to learn to actually shoot if you have enough ammo.
For her part, Emily — I think that was his wife’s name — carried something much smaller. Her handgun also had a polymer frame, but was pink and the grips had some sort of camouflage pattern. I recognized it as a model that was advertised as being “specific to a woman’s unique anatomy”. Further, it was touted as having fingerprint-proof grips and finish. Why that would be necessary to a law-abiding citizen was anyone’s guess.
OK, so open carry is legal in this state, but I would appreciate a little situational awareness. These two goofs never displayed any, and that was one of the reasons I found them so annoying. Again today, their ignorance was on full display. Both of them had their hands full: Gordy with a bag of soil and a garden hose, Emily with a bag of dog food and a bag of chicken feed.
Further, there were at least half a dozen people within their critical zone who could be on them before either were able draw their weapon. Hell, I was within arms length of Emily’s gun. I could have just reached out it and grabbed it. Yet, she was oblivious to my presence. The thought did occur to me that I should reach out and grab her gun so she would learn a valuable lesson. That would probably lead to complications. I decided to park the idea.
Eventually, it was Gordy’s turn to get rung up. He put his stuff on the counter and motioned toward Emily, telling Fred what she had. She continued to hold the items.
Fred tried to interact as little as possible with Gordy. He knew the price of too much conversation with Gordy. Fred rang up Gordy’s purchases in silence and with uncharacteristic speed.
When it was time to pay up, Gordy, having had no other opportunity for exposition, launched unprompted into one of his favorite speeches. In fact, he had used this speech so many times that it was entirely likely that every store clerk within a fifty-mile radius had it memorized by dint of repeated exposure.
“You do realize,” began Gordy as he placed his currency on the counter, “that money is illegal.”
Now comes the line about the Constitution, I thought
“The Constitution specifically forbids the federal government from issuing money.”
I never did learn where this guy got his material. It certainly did not come from actually reading the Constitution.
“Yep! Most people don’t realize that.” At this point Gordy raised his voice a bit and looked over his shoulder as if he wanted to make sure that the whole store had heard him. “Right there in Article Six. But none of you know that. Most people aren’t educated and don’t deserve to be citizens. You are all content to be lied to and—”
At this point something in me snapped. I would not say what I did was conscious thought. I mean, I remember doing it, but it was more like I was along for the ride, watching rather than being an active participant. Yet, I remember it very well.
My right hand shot out. I grabbed the pink and camo handgun from Emily’s waist band. I could tell it was “cocked-and-locked” and I needed only to thumb off the safety to be ready to fire.
I extended my arm over Emily’s right shoulder. Taking aim at the base of Gordy’s skull, I pulled the trigger. The distinctive sound of a small-caliber, subsonic weapon discharging filled the store. A barely noticeable hole appeared just below the occipital protuberance at the back of Gordy’s head. His knees buckled and he fell forward. His upper body landed partially on the counter then slid to the floor.
Emily, was too shocked to scream. But she did turn and look at me with an expression of incomprehension. She still held the chicken feed and dog food.
My arm was still extended past her shoulder, so I had to pull it back. She started to take a step back. I put the gun up under her chin and pulled the trigger. She and her bag of chicken feed and her bag of dog food dropped to the floor in unison, the momentum from her uncompleted backward step causing her to land on her back.
I looked down at Emily. She still had an expression of disbelief on her face, though she was clearly dead. Gordy was emitting his death gurgle. I dropped the gun on Emily’s chest and headed for the door.
Everyone else in the store stood still as statues. It all happened so fast that there was no time to react. They were not sure what they had just witnessed; their brains were still working on it.
As I made my way across the store, no one said a thing or tried to stop me.
I pushed open the door and went straight to my car. I got in and tossed the cat food onto the passenger seat. That was when I realized that throughout this whole scene, I had been carrying it in my left hand.
I wasn’t really feeling any sense of urgency. I guess I was just as shocked as everyone else in the store. I mean, I hadn’t planned any of this. It just happened; it wasn’t even a fully conscious action. I didn’t feel any real sense of responsibility. At least, not yet anyway.
I put the key in the ignition and gave it a crank. The car started on the first try. I shifted into reverse and backed out of the parking space and turned a bit so that when I stopped, I was facing the exit. I slipped it into drive and headed out of the lot and onto the highway. I kept a watch in the rearview mirror as long as I could, but didn’t see anyone come out into the lot before the store was no longer in sight.
I drove straight home and parked the car in the driveway as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. On the way, I had thought a bit about what had taken place, what I had done, and decided that I would not try to hide. I would do everything just as if it were a normal day.
I keyed into the house and found my tortoise-and-white, fluffy loaf of a cat waiting for me. Hypatia, while capable of being a lovable specimen, could also be a nagging little hairball. At the present, she was the latter. She jumped up on the counter, scolding and yowling until I opened the new bag and filled her bowl. She took a mouthful before realizing that I had given her different food than what she was used to.
Hypatia stopped in mid-chew and turned to look at me. She gave me a look that one would expect an NFL coach might give to a quarterback who had fumbled in his own endzone. She held this for an uncomfortably long time before returning to the food. No doubt, she felt me beneath any further approbation. Maybe there was something more than just substandard cat food behind her reproach. Perhaps, she had somehow discerned what I had done.
Just like that, everything hit me.
Copyright © 2024 by T. G. Roettiger
