Marty's Revenge

Young Marty Adkins decided to conquer his enemy at last. He left the funeral of his father with a false smile of appreciation to all of the guests. No one expected him to be grateful for the work everyone had done, but welcomed his recognition of their quick assistance. He got in his car, a blemish-free 2002 Honda Civic, and calmly drove from the mortuary. When he got home, he went into the basement and searched for his gun. His father had purchased him the gun when he turned 15 as a rite of passage. Marty was so happy with the gift, he went paint-balling with his friends the next day. Marty had not touched the gun in over a year. But he could still remember the sting of paint-balls hitting his skin. He likened it to the stinging in his eyes. He had not slept for over 24 hours because he was contemplating. Contemplating his father’s death, figuring out what to do about it. He knew that there was only one thing to resolve the hatred he held.
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Marty went into his room and found the paint balls he had left over from the last time he had gone out. He kept them under his bed because he never knew when he’d need them to throw at his sister. They rarely exploded when he just threw them, but he could still make them sting his sister’s skin. He took a paintball between his thumb and forefinger and rolled it around. He watched the yellow as the sun hit it through the window. He suddenly felt the sun warming his body, and pulling him away from his anger.
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He awoke at 2:09AM. He thought his dream was real and began to cry. How could he have killed anyone with a paintball gun? He laid in the darkness forever, thinking about the possibility. He could not have killed anyone with a paintball. In his dream the paintball entered a man’s chest like a bullet. Paintballs don’t do that. No one had really died, except his father. Again Marty felt his blood pressure rising. He will conquer his enemy now. His enemy took his father without a fight because he was fooled. His father was snared into a trap and was corkscrewed into oblivion by a power he didn’t understand.
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Marty got up quickly and opened his bedroom door. The lights in the rest of the house were out, and his mom’s car was in the driveway. They must have found him sleeping in mourning and gone to bed without stirring him. He quietly opened the front door of the house and slipped out with his paintballs flashing in the streetlights. He got in his car and headed out into the city. Marty lived in the suburbs, so it would be a while before he made it downtown. His enemy was waiting, fully unaware.
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He stopped in a vacant parking lot and loaded his gun. He pulled back out onto the street, sweeping his head inconspicuously looking for cops. He saw his target ahead, on the corner of 8th Avenue and McCollister Street. She was dealing like usual, pulling the masses into her cold embrace only to disease them, to kill them silently. Marty drove by slowly and stuck his arm out car window, pulling the trigger 5 times. He heard a scream and screeched away. He turned down lots of back streets so no one could follow him, he wanted vengeance, but was not willing to go to jail for it. He had destroyed his enemy. No one would ever paintball a bar. The McCollister Pub is a warm and inviting place. But now the perfect exterior was blemished, the people driving by could no longer read the funny quip on the sign: “Beer is the answer; I forgot what the question was.”