Gavel That Built Civilization

Eye for an eye.

Tooth for a tooth.

Ass for an ass.

This is how the game was played.

He passed 1370.

1372.

He stood in front of 1374.

The SUV sat comfortably atop its concrete bed, not even suspecting what was about to happen. Kyle advanced upon the vehicle. He chose the side farthest away from the front window of the home and kneeled to his knees to begin his work. The chisel was pulled from his pocket and the hard steel end was placed against the front passenger door. It dug easily into the paint, deep, gouging into the soft aluminum underneath. Both hands were placed over the handle and he pulled the chisel towards him, peeling the paint off in chunks like the skin of an orange.

There was no alarm.

He increased the pressure and peeled, scraped, dug, removed. He did this to all four doors before the chisel was placed back into his pocket. He worked like a skilled surgeon, methodically. Did not rush.

Next, he pulled the hammer from his belt and leaned over the side of the hood. He raised the hammer up and smashed it into the center of the front window. The hollow crunch was carried away by the wind; the slab of glass buckled under the blow and spider webs spread from the epicenter in speedy bolts.

He did the same to the windows above both of the front doors. Little pleasure was reaped from his toils. He was merely a judge sentencing a criminal. The hammer was his gavel. The gavel that built civilization.

Guilty.

Guilty.

Guilty.

He would wait one week.

It was 3:17 AM.

Two days later.

Kyle was standing in front of the pear-shaped woman’s house. He was wearing the same clothing he had two nights earlier, along with thin cotton gloves. They were black, stretchy, wrapped his hands snug. In his belt was the pellet gun, loaded with twenty-five copper B-B’s. In his pockets were three smooth throwing stones.

Two in his right.

One in his left.

He walked silently over the sidewalk to the left, so he could get a good view of the side of the house. Pulling the pellet gun from his belt, he pointed it at the kitchen window. His right eyelid slid down. His one-eyed vision shot down the short barrel through the cross hairs, beyond, across the night air, stopping at the surface of glass. Bore through, to the dimly illuminated refrigerator.

This is where he focused, through the window.

With air held captive in his lungs, his index finger squeezed the trigger back in two full pulls. Two tink tinks could be heard, along with glass breaking and falling in musical wind-chime softness. The gun was shoved back into his belt. He ran onto the lawn in front of the house, removed the three rocks from his pockets. Two rocks were dropped to the grass and the third was hurled through the left-most window.

Glass rain.

Then nothing.

Silence.

The other two rocks were swept back into his mittened hands and another was sent slicing through the air, blasting through the larger window on his right.

Splintered fairy laughter.

Then nothing.

Silence.

The last rock was for the upstairs bedroom window, where he guessed the pear-shaped woman slept. "If the crashing glass had yet to wake her, this would for sure," he thought. He cocked his right arm back and looked up, concentrating on the center of the shiny glass. In one fluid arch, the rock was flung through the window and could be heard smashing into a wall.

He didn’t wait to see what happened, was sprinting down the road on the balls of his feet.