There he was. That arrogant, self-possessed son of a bitch. Acting like he didn’t have a care in the world. The police couldn’t find any evidence to tie him to my brother’s murder. But I knew who was responsible.

So, here I was with a sniper rifle I bought off an old friend who had contacts (the kind you hear about but never, ever meet). I knew how to use it, and had target shooting skills that made military sharpshooters weep.

I took aim and prepared to put a bullet through his forehead.

No. Too quick. I changed my aim to hit him in the throat. Let him choke on his own blood.

No, still not enough suffering. I aimed lower. It’s a small target, I told myself, but I’m sure to can hit it from here. I put my finger on the trigger and prepared to fire.

In the end, though, he lived. If I’d have fired, I’d be no better than him. I’m better than that.

I did burn down his house in Miami.

And keyed his Lamborghini.

And, for the finale, I broke into his LA home, and short-sheeted the bed.

Now, that is evil.