Slave Screams

The car’s speakers struggled as the music forced itself through. Damon barely noticed the booming bass and the overpowering vocals. His lips were caught in an endless smirk. His foot pressed on the gas pedal, causing the engine to roar with excitement. The Porsche sped around a wide turn and almost lost its grip with the dirt road. Damon didn’t care though; he was running on a high. A high known to many men. Men who had to suffer and fight for it. Freedom. Damon had longed for it since he was a mere child.

I’m going to show that prick a thing or two. Damon rolled down the window; the air that rushed in just added to the noise. Stupid old man, let’s see what happens to his empire now. Damon’s heart began to leap in his chest as he dragged around another turn. Can’t hold me down any more, can you? He chuckled to himself. He was overcome with happiness and power.

Damon slammed on the brakes, the car slid across the dirt and it’s tail swerved to the side. Bury the man. Bury the memories. Damon stepped out of the car, music still pounding. He took the Zippo out of his pocket and tossed it between hands. “First thing you ever gave me. First thing to go.” He growled, pulling out a small container of kerosene from the back seat. He sprayed it lazily on the seats, through the open windows. He tossed the empty bottle into the car, followed by the lit lighter. Dare he admit he felt almost giddy on the inside.

Damon watched the blaze for a moment before he began walking down the secluded country road. He felt triumphant. This was the beginning of the end. Now that his father was dead and his life’s work (business, estate, money, and whatever else you can judge a man by) had been handed over to Damon – oh, how ecstatic he had been, even made a few wise cracks at the man’s funeral – and he had plans. Revenge for the torture he was put through as a child and even as an adult. The poor boy was driven mad from the pressure his father put on him. The education in business, forced. The marriage to some woman he barely knew (let alone loved), forced. Working directly under his father, forced. Now, everything was forced on him. This time though, he was going to play it his way.

He pulled out his cell phone, “Dial, James.” He bit on his lower lip with impatience. A moment later it began to ring and then was answered with a formal greeting. “Hey, can you pick me up. I am … well … somewhere.” Damon’s driver gave a polite but confused response. “The 911? It … burned out …” He suppressed a chuckle. “How about, you just keep heading west of Borden, and I will head east. I am sure things will work themselves out.” He was sure.