Harry Guakomoli had been dead for six months, and Travis really couldn't care less. Sure, The Guak was helpful when they were both gunning for the same son of a bitch and they would join forces. Well, Travis would gun for him while The Guak used his fists, feet, head, and the occasional improvised weapon when it was time for violence.
It was always time for violence for Travis. It was the only thing the mongrels understood. These thugs didn't understand anything else. So they had to pay...and pay dearly.
No, The Guak's absence merely meant Travis didn't have a self-righteous blowhard to act as a target when the vigilante sent the drug pushers and flesh peddlers to Hell with his twin Glocks.
Travis prowled the streets for prey in his cab: a 1998 canary yellow Crown Vic. The degenerates and lowlifes never suspected a taxi cruising the 'hoods looking for the creeps that taint and sully this once great city. This once great nation. The limp-wristed politicians and their minions in the police force were too soft to do what needed to be done. If they were hard enough to make the tough choices and take action they were corrupt. Just as bent as the whores and skinners and methheads and skunk pussies they should have bee fighting to eliminate.
Travis was alone in his crusade. Sure, there was The Guak and his negress girlfriend. Uppity bitch. Then Guakomoli traded her in for that fucking cat. One brown pussy for another. Travis had spent hours coming up with that. His cleverness made him chuckle.
Laughter did not come easily for Travis. He lead a joyless existence; there was no time for mirth in this street soldier's one-man war against the killers, pimps, fairies, rapists, dope-peddling shines, and the rest of The City's trash. Travis was a hard rain washing over this modern day Sodom. His deluge of hot lead will cleanse the streets. Yes, he was God's lonely hand of justice.
But Travis' forlornness was about to end. He had a date with destiny. He was going to march up to Leisure and shoot the creep in the sack, then the gut, and finally in his fucking head.
The vigilante would take Lily away from the abuse and depravity and make her pure again. His plan was to take her to Driscoll's and treat her to a banana split or a hot fudge sundae. Then take her home to the efficiency apartment he shared with his mother. The next morning a Justice Of The Peace would make the pair man and wife. The plan was perfect, the only snag would be Travis fighting the temptation to consummate their righteous union before they were to be wed.
It was only half an hour until showtime. Travis leaned on the hood of his cab feeling like the shit. His trademark mohawk, aviator shades, and ratty Army coat were in attendance as always, but he also needed to impress his dream girl, his bride-to-be, his Lily. God's lonely hand of justice accomplished this by wearing a tight short-sleeved tan button-up shirt and a fat mahogany tie. The slacks, also mahogany in color, clung snugly to his lower body. He had been doing fifty pushups and fifty pullups every day since early summer, and he wanted to show off his physique to his beloved.
It had been a long Friday night for Travis, and before his murdering of Leisure and rescuing of Lily he shot the breeze with fellow hacks Warlock, Cole Snorter, and Crackerjack. He worked hard, and soon he would kill hard then play hard.
But then there he was. Travis rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn't seeing things. He was not: standing before him, in hobo clothes, was The Guak. Travis stared at the walking dead man, mouth agape. Said walking dead man walked right over to the cabbie/exterminator.
"Travis," stated The Guak. "A word."
Travis' fellow drivers looked at The Guak's stone cold countenance and Travis' own expression of shock and terror. The men decided to let the crime fighters have their space and entered the diner.
"How? What?" asked Travis beside himself. "How can this be? I was at your funeral."
"I had a funeral?" The Guak was amused.
"Yeah, it was put on by your fairy priest friend and a bunch of spics."
Travis noticed he had hit a nerve as The Guak clenched and unclenched his fists and clenched them again.
"No offense," Travis lied. He couldn't figure out if the walking dead man was a queer or just a race traitor. Probably both.
"I need to borrow your cab," said The Guak as he barely managed to control his wrath.
"No can do, man. I'm swinging by Leisure's soon and picking up Lily. We've got a date, and I need my wheels."
"I understand," The Guak said. "Tell me about your dream girl."
"She's the salt of the earth, my Lily," began Travis. "But with a real potty mouth too. I love that about her. Long dirty blonde hair. Big blue eyes. Perky tits. So young, so innocent."
"Sweet, my man," responded The Guak. "How young is the little darling?"
"She'll be fourteen in November."
"Yum! Do you have a picture of the lucky lady?"
"Yeah! I've got a few on my phone!"
Travis was a lot of things: driven, hardcore, bat shit crazy. But intelligent was not a quality God's lonely hand of justice possessed. He should have suspected The Guak was putting on a ruse; our hero had always voiced his disapproval of Travis' predilection towards teenage girls. The Guak had called him a pervert, a pedophile, and a sick fuck. But Travis was blinded by the fact someone finally expressed positive interest in his predisposition towards underage flesh. Except for Oslo. That fucking cat was always trying to move in on his action. The lunatic gunman, to put it bluntly, was a fucking idiot. He surmised no untoward action against him as he dug around in his military-issued coat pocket for his cellular telephone, which doubled as a treasure trove of photographs of jail bait in various stages of undress.
The lightning quick elbow hit Travis hard. He felt his face crack as the strongest man he knew smashed it in. The crime fighter/cab driver/statutory rapist was knocked off his feet from the blow, hitting his mohawked head on the car's hood, the fender, and finally the asphalt of Driscoll's parking lot. It did not take long for the the blood to begin seeping out of his noggin. The Guak stook his hand into his victim's pocket and withdrew Travis' phone and car keys.
"What the fuck, man?!" Travis exclaimed as he gargled his own blood.
"I should have done this a long time ago, and I'm disgusted with myself that I didn't."
Our hero crushed the cell phone with his hand. Tiny bits of plastic and electronics fell to the ground and landed in the puddle of Travis' head blood. Then The Guak stomped hard on the groin of God's lonely hand of justice. Our hero always felt attacking another man's genitals was strictly forbidden. The Guak was just as dirty a fighter as the next guy when forced, but he still had something of a code. No going after the junk. Yet in that one instance he made an exception. A broken dick and ruptured nuts would ensure Travis would not be sticking it to minors any time soon.
"Thanks for the car, shitheel," our hero said through clenched teeth as he made his way to the cab's driver's side front door.
"But-but-but I was going to kill Leisure tonight," lamented Travis as more blood poured from his cranium.
"Maybe when I get back we'll do a team-up."
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