The idea of extortion hadn’t come to him overnight. It wasn’t something he’d had an epiphany about either. No, instead it had been created by a slow burn, his anger and bitterness building through the years until the emotions solidified.
So many slights he’d suffered through the decades had snowballed into a tightly controlled column of fury with no outlet. He had no one he could turn to and vent his frustrations, no one to provide much-needed sympathy. When the notion of using his skills against the people who’d caused him so much distress glimmered to life, he hadn’t been sure of how exactly to best put those skills to use to gain what he wanted.
Then one morning he read a story in the paper, and he knew what he wanted to do. What the monkeys that rode his back and tormented him needed done.
As he pulled his car up to the drive-thru mailbox and rolled down the window, he smirked, thinking about the impact the letters he was mailing today would have on their recipients. No one would be expecting the missives, which made what he was doing that much more pleasurable.
“You’d think that with all the mayhem our humble little burg has endured over the last couple of years, people would be less trusting, more cautious,” he muttered as he pulled back onto the street.
That didn’t seem to be the case. The citizens of Olman County were oblivious to the unseen dangers surrounding them—people with ill intent who were listening, watching, learning myriad details about their lives by the sheer act of being present. The lack of concern suited his purposes just fine though, as the specialized brand of fury he was unleashing on the upper echelons, the movers and shakers, would make what had come before look like child’s play.
As he drove away from the isolated mailbox, he passed under the interstate spur that came off the bridge connecting Indiana to Kentucky, entering the heart of the small town in his crosshairs, and he laughed. “Welcome to Leroy.”