The door opened with a chime, a tinny electric sound from old speakers. Behind the counter, Daniel Simmons raised his eyes from a portable television. He was middle-aged, his hair thinning, and his cheeks sagging. His eyes were wary. Who could have possibly come? The stretch of highway this gas station sat on was quiet enough most days, even quieter in the middle of the night.

The clerk's first thought was a trucker. A tough life for sure, folks always driving to and fro through whatever obscure road the job took them to and at all times of day and season.

But it wasn't a trucker.

Daniel, the clerk, sat up a little straighter and turned the volume down on his television.

This was a thug. Baggy clothes, pants and jacket two sizes too big. He had his hair done up in dreadlocks, and the swagger of his step sent them bouncing from side-to-side. His skin was the color of dirt.

"Can I help you?" Daniel asked.

The thug didn't look his way, instead inspecting a rack of sunglasses. Pretending he couldn't hear even though they were the only two people there.

"Sir?" Daniel said, raising his voice a little. "Can I help you?"

"Hm?" The black man turned around, pulling a bud out of his ear. One of the new wireless ones, damn hard to spot. The little plastic thing throbbed with a beat, probably some kind of rap. "What's up?" the thug asked.

Daniel cleared his throat. "I said, can I help you?"

"Nah, I'm good. Just picking up some snacks." The thug turned away and went down an aisle, looking over the selection of chips.

He sure as hell was taking his time. Daniel glanced at the fisheye mirror in the store's corner and followed the reflection of his strange guest. Down the aisle, the black man went, his hand wandering occasionally to the shelf as if to pick up a bag, but each time, at the last second pulling back, empty-handed.

Or maybe not empty-handed. Daniel squinted, he didn't have the best view, not from where he stood. He wondered if he ought to get out from behind the counter, follow the thug around.

Before Daniel could make up his mind, his guest reached the end of the aisle and picked a bag of chips up. One of those small personal ones, enough for just a few handfuls.

A single little bag of chips. The black man came around, walking over to Daniel. He set the bag down on the counter.

Daniel didn't look at the bag. His eyes were fixed firmly on the thug across the counter from him.

No way, this thug had come all the way out here in the middle of the night for just one measly bag of chips.

"You gonna ring me up, man?" the thug asked.

Under the counter, in a leather holster that Daniel had fixed himself, was a gun. A Glock 19, an old familiar gun. Daniel knew every inch of that gun, knew how cold the steel could get, knew the feel of the grip, the pull of the trigger. It would slide smooth out from the holster, one quick motion and Daniel would turn the tables in an instant.

The thug leaned in a little closer. "There a problem?"

Daniel kept one hand low. "No. No problem."

He scanned the bag of chips and got the price. 79 cents.

"Here." The thug said, holding out a dollar bill.

Would it be now? While Daniel was distracted with taking the money?

Daniel took the bill.

And before he could wonder how he would manage to get change with only one free hand, the thug waved him off and walked away with his bag of chips.

"Keep the change," he called over his shoulder.

Daniel's grip on his gun was iron-tight.

Was this an escape? A quick getaway for some shoplifting that Daniel failed to notice?

Once again, before Daniel could make up his mind, the thug was gone. The doors chimed, this time signalling the exit of Daniel's only customer.

Daniel let out an enormous sigh of relief, his hand falling away from the gun.

It was okay now. Daniel had come out okay. Maybe he had been paranoid, but he was safe and that was all that mattered.

Daniel reached over to his miniature television and cranked the volume up. His hands shook as he grabbed the knob, but he managed in the end. He was okay. Daniel was okay.

Sunrise brought the end of Daniel's shift and miracle of miracles, the part-timer he had hired actually came in on time for once. Daniel considered telling the kid about his late-night encounter, but thought better of it. Daniel felt tired just thinking about it.

With a parting "have a good one", Daniel left the gas station and got in his car.

He couldn't wait to get home. To just crash and sleep and forget about the whole day.

Daniel keyed the ignition and the engine came to life.

"Yo."

Daniel looked over his shoulder, more confused than surprised. He had only a brief moment to see the syringe before it plunged into his neck and the world went black.

Daniel woke feeling like his head was an overripe melon fit to burst.

"Gruaah," he groaned. He had tried to say "what".

"About time you woke up."

Daniel jerked at the sound of the voice. He tried to stand, to look up, to shout, but it all failed. He couldn't move, not his legs, not his head, not even his mouth.

"Disorienting, ain't it."

"Gruuh. Gruuuah!" There was something in his mouth. A rag. Daniel gagged as he realized, and choked. The cloth was wet with more than just saliva. Alcohol, not the sort you drank, but the sort you rubbed on a bloody wound. Daniel's throat burned and he coughed wildly, choking on his own spit.

"Easy. It ain't time yet."

Though Daniel couldn't move his head, he could move his eyes. He looked up. Before him was a mirror.

"Gruuah!" He screamed into the rag.

Daniel was sat in a chair, his legs tied up while his upper half had been put in a straitjacket. But not any straitjacket Daniel had ever seen. This one had his left arm twisted behind his back until his wrist was between his shoulder blades, while his right arm was folded inward nearly into its own armpit. The jacket didn't end with just the arms, though. It had a collar and a glove. The collar fixed his neck far past comfortable at a 45 degree angle and the glove was over his right hand and fixing his grip around a pistol.

A Glock 19. And with the way his head and hand were positioned, he was stuck pressing the barrel of the gun into his own skull.

"Guh! Guuuh!" He screamed again, jerking in the chair, but going nowhere.

A hand fell over his shoulder. "Easy, man, easy."

Daniel's eyes wandered further upward, searching the mirror's reflection. Standing just behind him was the thug. Still dressed in his baggy clothes, still with his dreadlocks and brown skin.

"Guh?"

"Yeah, I get it." The thug met Daniel's stare and they locked eyes. "You don't understand what you're doing here, do you?"

No, please, Daniel tried to say, but the only sound that came out was "Guh."

"Let me take that out for you." He pulled out the rag and Daniel immediately started to cough and gasp for breath.

"Okay, now." The thug leaned down until his face was just over Daniel's shoulder, "Do you know me?"

Daniel stared at the thug's face without recognition.

"You don't remember? You don't recognize the best friend of the boy you killed?"

Daniel's sucked in a breath. The pieces fell in place. The more he looked, the more he saw. The narrow face, the raised cheekbones and those eyes. Those black hateful eyes.

"Y-you," Daniel gasped out.

"Me," Erik Stevens said.

"What is this? What's happening" Daniel's voice was slurred and slow. His stomach churned with too much alcohol in him.

"This," Erik waved a hand over Daniel, "is your suicide."

Daniel's mouth hung open. "What?"

"You're gonna die, Officer Simmons."

The reality hit Daniel right then. The gun against his head, the black eyes watching him, and the words reverberating through his head. You're gonna die.

"No, please, no. I-I didn't mean to kill him. It was a mistake"

"A mistake, yeah. You say so right here." Erik held up a piece of paper in a sealed plastic bag. "You talk about all the regrets you have. There's a whole paragraph just for the boy you killed."

"I didn't write that!"

"I wrote it. It's your suicide letter."

"This is crazy," Daniel gasped again, his throat feeling tight. "This is insane."

"Insane? No, Officer Simmons, this is justice. Eye for an eye. Life for a life. You shoot a boy on his way to visit his friend, you don't get off with just paid leave. You don't get to retire and live happily ever after. No, that shit's gotta come back for you."

"It was a mistake," Daniel said again, pleading. "It was a mistake. He fit the description."

"Fit the description, fit the description. He was fifteen and you thought he was forty."

Daniel squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to remember the night, but there it was on the back of his eyelids. "Armed and dangerous" the dispatcher had said. Daniel had seen the figure off in the distance, walking alone on the side of the road, his hands in his pockets.

"I'm sorry," Daniel said, tears streaming down his cheeks, "Please, I'm sorry. I've been saying sorry for years."

"You say it, but you don't mean it."

"I mean it! I'm fucking sorry! You think I went out there and wanted to kill him? It was a fucking accident !"

"An accident, huh?"

"Yes!"

"Just a mistake?"

"Yes. Please."

"It won't happen again?"

"Never."

"You promise?"

"I swear to Christ."

Erik stared at Daniel. Just stared. Contemplating.

"Alright," Erik said, "Just tell me one thing. And I want the truth."

"Anything," Daniel said.

Erik leaned close. "Last night, when I came in to your store." His hand went over Daniel's, shadowing the fingers wrapped around the gun. "Were you holding onto this gun?"

Daniel's mouth opened, but no sound came out. He saw the look in Erik's eyes. He already knew.

Erik closed his fist.

Erik ran the towel over his face. A few flecks of blood had gotten on him. Not enough to make a mess, but enough to be noticeable.

He glanced down at the former officer, blood forming a pool from the shattered remains of his head. It was a better death than the fucker deserved.

Erik pulled out a knife and bent over the corpse. Before the blood really started to pour out, he had to get the strait jacket off. Couldn't fake a suicide if Erik left all the evidence that it was faked.

He skinned the strait jacket off, cutting wherever it stuck to the dead man. A damn shame that the jacket was one-use only. Erik only had a few left and he didn't think he'd get another chance to raid a CIA equipment stash. He couldn't keep this up.

Erik had a list of names. Men. Women. Oppressors, all of ones who had hurt him and those close to him came first, but the rest? Erik wasn't sure if he could get to them all.

Erik was only one man. The toughest, the meanest, the best, but still only one man.

The straitjacket was off, now only a few ribbons of cloth. Erik put it all away in a plastic bag.

If Erik was going to give every motherfucker out there the justice they deserved, then he needed to start aiming a little higher.

It was about time Erik headed home.

AN:

Title taken from "Changes" by Tupac Shakur.