I don’t care who you are or how many civilians you killed in Iraq, you don’t intimidate me. Twelve years ago I killed 3 men in Tijuana after they tried to steal my van. I didn’t really need the van, nor did I have to chase them down with an axe, I just didn’t want them to find my stash of obscure digimon pornography. The last transgressor standing, a rather stocky fellow in a red striped polo swore on his grave that his brothers would avenge him. I obliged to deliver my “condolences” to his next of kin and severed every tendon between his head and torso within four swings.
Two days later I found myself in El Paso after recovering enough information from Ricardo’s wallet to track his immediate family down. Turns out they all lived in a warehouse, one I had burned to the ground before leaving his disembodied head on a pike outside. Thirteen bodies were recovered that night, according to the local 9 o’clock news broadcast. Mexicans have a lot of kids, you know.
Don’t fuck with me or my family, you “little bitch”. You wanna play hardball, let’s play hardball.