A quick view from The Fishing Trip a work in progress.
Scene-Durham is on his way to handle-up on some last minute business before leaving town.
Durham drove the F150 sixty miles into the woods at thirty miles over the speed limit with the windows down, the cool wind aiding the cigar smoke to swirl through the trucks interior. The sounds of Battle Without Honor or Humility from the Kill Bill movie blaring in the silence of the dark cool night air. This was his theme song. He loved a good challenge and tonight he had a big one, even if he was the only one who knew it.
The cabin where he was driving was now filled with the sickest single group of sadistic perverts he had ever come across. At the moment they were sitting in a warm fully equipped cabin watching their homemade child porn on a 52 inch flat screen television, drinking and eating and having a laughing good time. They had trusted him when he said he was going to run into town for more supplies. The same way those little children had trusted them. Each of their wives and children had either won a trip or were on sleepovers or pretty much engaged somewhere else for the week. Unaware of how their lives were about to change for the better. Those cretins in the cabin trusted and believed he had wanted to invest in their porno film making business. Durham found it mind numbing how easily it had been to fool people who prided themselves on being cunning and conniving. They thought they had made it to the ‘big times’, an often repeated phrase from the FedEx man as they had fished off what they believed to be his yacht in the middle of the ocean the day before. Durham’s intention had been to blow the boat up in the middle of the water after he had gotten safely away, but when Bertrand began talking and then begging about a wish to own a cabin, Durham began a discussion intimating the pretense of possibly selling. What they didn’t know was, yeah he was selling alright; selling them a bunch of crap and a trip to hell.
For twenty years he had used the cabin as a way to remind himself of the reasons he did the things he did and the person he really was inside. A superhero, a savior of sorts and not the mad killing machine his stepfather and all of the f’in fathers had turned him into.
The cabin was his protection against the ‘kryptonite of doubt and fear’. He would sit on the porch leaning back on a wooden chair, feet on the rail and smoke a cigarette as he had seen so many men do in the movies, Clint Eastwood especially. He’d sit squint his eyed in the sunset and through the burning smoke of the cigarette, watch the still waters of the lake rolling over the umpteen bodies buried in its depths and smile at the fact they were piled one on top the other and his stepfather was the foundation. The platform for the superhero for children he had become.
Durham turned off the music as he drew nearer the building. From his vantage point he could see the television through the huge pate glass windows and was sickened over the events occurring on the screen. The sight of a child screaming and crying while being raped and the images of the sorry bastards sitting on the couch and chairs laughing and cheering through the windows fueled his intentions to end their life. They deserved a quick and fitting punishment. Adjusting the gloves on his hands and covering the soles of his boots with plastic bags Durham slid out of the truck.