I'm sorry if I plunged a little too deep into violence and profanity into this tale. I was trying to focus on the sheer rage this man might be feeling, despite his lack of verbal demonstration of it.

The inspiration for the story itself came from "Vengeance Is Mine" by Alice Cooper.

Prompt: "Grammar Tip(s)." From a list of several common grammar goofs below, (and links to their correct usage) choose one, or more, of them and include the correct usage of the grammar in your 4F. If it compares two or more words, choose one to use correctly in your 4F. Of course, you're always allowed to include more than one, if you'd like.
Those I chose:
Semicolon usage
Everyday vs. Every Day

Words: 496


Whether or not he actually killed that Taraldsen broad, Stuart didn't give a shit.

Sitting quietly on the bench in his prison cell, he placed his hands on top of his folded knees. It was cleaner than the hobo camp, but that didn't necessarily make it better. The beams of sickly silver light hit his face through the prison bars. Occasionally, a cop would pass by, but Ackerman had nothing to say to him.

There was the detective, Cole Phelps, Cole Phelps, Cole FUCKING Phelps! He remembered seeing that pretty face on the front of a newspaper that lined one of the camp's lean-tos. Women Stuart had put his hands on in the past had pretty faces. He'd put his hands on Phelps, too, and rip that pretty face to shreds. Would the everyday law-abiding Mr. and Mrs. Smith still love him with his skin torn off?

Empty eye sockets bleeding, Cole would shake his head wildly at the cocking of a pistol. "Let me tell you about justice, Phelps—"

A shadow fell across the bars.

"—it's nothing but a fairy tale the good old boys on Capitol Hill sell every day to cannon fodder like you."

"Stuart Ackerman?" The policeman called softly.

Stuart, despite himself, was caught off-guard by the surprisingly gentle tone of his voice. What game was he playing?

"There's been a mistake."

"Mistake?" Stuart repeated. What did these idiots fuck up now?

"You're an innocent man, Stuart. As of now, you're free to go."

Stuart snorted. "I'll miss the free meals." Narrowing his eyes, he asked, "Sun out?"

"Yes," the policeman replied as he took out his keys, "It's always sunny in California."

Stuart shook his head. "It was raining when he took me."

"Who?" He asked blankly.

He waved his hand. "Forget it, you're all the same."

The key worked slowly in the lock as the policeman chose not to reply.

Ackerman climbed off the bench to stretch luxuriously.

He had a jack-in-the-box as a kid, the laughing face bright-colored and bouncing. Smile for me, Phelps.

"Kill a cop, and it's the electric chair!" Phelps had yelled at him. Stuart knew better; Uncle Sam would rather throw the switch on his poster boy in an ultimate heroic sacrifice than on a washed-out bum like him. Headlines had to be made, after all. Dance puppet, dance on the electric current to earn your Purple Heart! I'll carve open your chest, and rip it right out!

"Oh, just one thing," Ackerman began innocently.

"Yes?"

"The guys at the camp, they aren't bad. We wouldn't be angry if we had something to eat. Even some scraps of that free food would be okay."

"Sure, I'll see what I can do," the policeman replied with a clearly forced smile.

Wipe your ass with "protect and serve." Stuart would rather eat shit for the rest of his days than eat anything the fascists served again. Funny thing was, he'd still be cleaner than them.