Thank you, Your Honor

This is not an entry to any 750 word challenge, except for myself. I wanted to try to do one and this is the result. A short and bloody BTB. I hope to post a longer version of this story to fill in some of the holes and details. I also plan to do a sequel that will provide some closure and answer some looming questions.

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Gerald sat on the edge of the bunk and looked at his hands. At only 42 years old, his hands looked much older. The fingers on his left hand were bent slightly askew, and the pinky finger on his right hand was missing the two outer joints. On each finger was roughly tattooed a letter. When his hands were clenched in a fist, they spelled 'ZERO FUCKS'.

Standing, he turned to look at the stainless-steel mirror that was firmly bolted to the wall. He remembered the bright, eager face of 12 years ago. His future seemed secure with a job that was set to launch him beyond his own lofty goals and a beautiful wife who loved him and promised to give him a houseful of children.

His once dark and wavy hair was gone. He kept his head shaved close. The right eye was partially obscured by the half closed eyelid, marred by the scar that started where his hair line should be and continued down in a sweeping arc across his cheek and over his jaw. The left eye was still unmarred, wary and constantly moving.

At the corner of his right eye, two teardrops seemed to fall along his cheek. Two men who had chosen to invade his space and try to demean him. The first learned the hard way that appearances can be deceiving. The second, more cunning, carried a shank into the shower.

The first died choking in the prison yard when a knife hand thrust destroyed the man's larynx and trachea. The other learned what a large bar of prison soap wrapped in a thin towel could do. In seconds, the other prisoner's face was no longer recognizable.

The man looked in the mirror, remembering when life had changed 12 years ago. In just a few short minutes, he had morphed from a happy family man into a dispassionate, unfeeling, emotionless, hulk. Gone was the speculative investor. There existed only a shell, filled with hate. He remembered that day.

He pulled his BMW into the garage to his usual space. His wife's bright red Mercedes roadster sat in its place across the garage. With a smile on his face, he came in the back door, and up the carpeted stairs. Halfway up, he stopped, and cocked his head to listen closer. He knew half of those sounds. The other half were familiar but strange. Stepping to the door, he eased it open. What he saw changed him instantly.

Without any hesitation, he was back down the stairs. He keyed the electronic combination on the massive gun safe, and retrieved the fully loaded Glock 17. Retracing his steps, he carefully pushed the door open. The two people on the bed were so intent on their activities that neither registered his presence until he spoke.

"Hello Paul, brother of mine."

He remembered his brother's eyes flying open, his head coming up to look around the woman who sat astride his hips. She turned her head and gasped in recognition. The Glock spoke before anyone else. The first round passed between the bottom of his brother's cock and his balls. His reaction tossed the woman off the side of the bed, his legs jackknifing, and his hand covering his bleeding groin. The second shot passed through both of his brother's hands and annihilated the cock they were cradling. The third and fourth shots left two neat holes in his brother's cheeks just under the eye sockets.

Turning his attention to the floor, he heard his wife screech. The Glock barked again and blood splashed between her legs. Without hesitation, the Glock spoke again, and a bloody blotch erupted on each breast. The final shot passed through her open mouth as she screamed.

The police found him, after his 911 call, sitting in the chair in the bedroom. The Glock was unloaded and in a safe condition when the first officer came through the door. He offered nothing but silence. In fact, he didn't say a word until his arraignment. When asked for his plea, he spoke softly but distinctly against the advice of his court appointed attorney.

"Guilty on all counts, your Honor."

Those were the last words he spoke. During the short trial his participation was nil. The judge delivered his sentence 4 months later.

"I find you guilty on all charges and sentence you to two life sentences to run concurrently."

Everyone in the courtroom gasped at his relaxed, distinct reply.

"Thank you, your Honor."