I woke in the middle of the night to the sounds of blaring 80s speed metal and intoxicated arguing. I came out to my living room to find Trevor and a tattooed-face guy I had never seen before arguing in front of a zonked out junkie who could barely keep his eyes open as he sat on my couch.
I couldn’t hear what they were arguing about over the heavy, distorted guitars pounding out my speakers, but it was clearly heated and quickly led to a shoving match.
I screamed at the two men, but they didn’t stop until the tattoo-faced stranger Trevor to the carpet just as a furious song came to a close. In the pause between songs, I heard the guy scream in Trevor’s face.
“I’m fucking doing it.”
The guy jumped up off of Trevor, walked over to the drooling junkie, pulled a gun and shot him right between the eyes.
The fallout started immediately. The tattoo-faced man, whose name I learned was Dee St. John disposed of the body and started cleaning my house, but informed me we were all fucked while he did it. The man he executed in a passionate fit of rage was the biggest heroin dealer in the state of Washington and it wouldn’t be long before his people were all over the three of us.
Trevor explained to me the other reason I was fucked. Dee St. James was a Neo Nazi, part-time contract killer who would quickly realize his only real shot at getting away with what he did probably included silencing the only two people who witnessed it. Our only chance was to bolt before Dee finished cleaning.
Now you are probably wondering right now why I didn’t just go to the police.
