I know the cat probably didn't stand a chance; lying in the middle of the painted median, already hit, badly injured and helpless. I pulled over with my small son to try and aid the poor thing. Then you came and swerved just so you could hit the cat. You didn't need to do it—you just did and sped away. Did it feel good, the thump of its body under your wheels? You didn't kill it outright, though. It thrashed and scrambled and flopped all the way to the curb. In its fear, it wouldn't let me near, so all I could do was watch as it pathetically tried to raise its shattered form to get away. It was still alive by the time Animal Control arrived. I hope your children, if some are cursed enough to call you father, witness the same thing someday. As you taught my son, they should know that the world is contaminated by soulless scum like you, for whom life carries no meaning. Make no mistake, I am no pussy—I hunt and love the thrill of the clean, sporting kill. I was a Marine in Desert Storm and watched men die. I even popped a guy in a bunker with my service 9 mm—blew the side of his head clean off. But I can look you in the eye and say I am fine with all of it. They were all worthy of such an honorable end. But you, you are a treacherous, murderous bastard. Worse, you're a coward.
Send anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to “Hey, You!” c/o OC Weekly, 1666 N. Main St., Ste. 500, Santa Ana, CA 92701-7417, or e-mail us at le*****@oc******.com.
