Officer James T. Skulker, forced to resign after twenty years. The excuse: too many died on his watch. Seven runners and a rookie cop fresh from the academy. His opinion: he was too good at his job. So much so, it wasn't even worth mentioning. He walked out, dumping his badge, his gun and his respect for anything remotely human on the chief's desk on the way to the door.
Pathetic.
His wife left him and now he lives in a shitty apartment in the city, shooting rats without interruption because the landlord is too afraid of him to call the police.
Vermin.
Before she walked off with half of his cash and the last of his sentimentalities, she told him that his major problem was his soul was too small. There was nothing left in there for smart human beings, just predatory nonsense that does better for a beast than a man.
He cleans his gun every day, choosing the next rodent to catch and kill, wondering when he stopped differentiating between rats and people.
Perhaps I should give them more credit, he mused. Humans and rats are comprised of fear, but at least humans fight back.
He put his gun back together and loaded another clip. He relished the satisfying click of the magazine sliding into place. He drank in his wife's muffled sobbing. He grew accustomed to the smell of fear. Then he pressed the barrel deep into the pillow until he felt the press of her forehead underneath it.
She started to beg. It was hilarious. Had she fought a little harder, he'd have made a trophy out of her, in honor of her memory.