It was the last day.

On the first day he got the news.

On the second day he climbed high into the mountains.  He lay in the spongey moss, letting his eyes soak in the majestic panorama of ocean and mountain that had greeted him each morning of his life.

On the third day, he sat in the great room of his home.  He thought of men whose names he had heard mentioned. He conceived a plan.

On the fourth day, he went shopping.  There were a few things he needed to make his plan work efficiently.

On the fifth day, he sought the first target.  This target did his work at night. Darkness was his friend.   This night he didn’t know the world had turned over. He who had been the hunter was now the prey.  He who was now the hunter watched silently from the shadows.

The moment arrived just after midnight.  A pretty young girl, who looked to be perhaps fifteen years old, walked down the dark street alone.  He who had been the hunter but was now the prey followed slowly behind her in his pickup truck.

He pulled alongside her, rolled down his window, and spoke to her.  The girl shook her head, answering in the negative. She was too slow.  The door of the truck opened. A strong hand gripped her arm, pulling her into the vehicle as she struggled vainly to escape. He who was now the hunter stepped from the shadows, raised the Smith & Weston subcompact semiautomatic, and fired.  The nine-millimeter bullet struck the target at the top of his left humerus where it fit into the scapula, destroying the ingenious ball and socket structure of the human shoulder.  He was unable to hold his grip on the girl’s arm.

“Run,” he who was now the hunter said loudly.  Calmly.

The girl ran.

He who was now the prey roared in pain.  With his good right arm, he pulled the Mossberg Shockwave twelve-gauge shotgun, known as the “Just in Case,” from under the seat.  Though it had no stock, only a pistol grip, he was unable to use it with one hand.

He who was now the hunter raised his small handgun again and fired twice more, both rounds striking the former rapist squarely in the forehead.

One man lay bleeding in the pickup truck, his sightless eyes staring at nothing.

The other walked away thinking of the French 75 cocktail he would enjoy before dining on the Rock Cornish game hen he planned to have for dinner.

The cop arrived ten minutes later.  He was closest to the scene when the call went out.  Even so it took a few minutes to locate the dead man and his truck.

The cop knew the victim.  He knew the man’s death was not a great loss.  He knew there were plenty of people who would like to see the man dead.  But vigilante justice was dangerous.

On the sixth day, he who was now the hunter found his target in the parking garage of a large office building.  The garage was almost empty. The man kneeling on the concrete, shoulders shaking as he wept, had worked long hours.

He who had been the hunter but was now the prey stood behind and over the kneeling man, pressing a Glock semiautomatic to the back of his head. He who had been the hunter but was now the prey killed for a living.  Some he was paid to make quietly disappear. Never to be seen again. With others his employers wanted to send a message.  They wanted the killing done publicly and viciously. They wanted to broadcast fear.

Today’s killing was one of the latter.

He who was now the hunter could see the assassin’s lips moving.  He was talking to the man he was about to murder. Telling him why he was going to die. He who was now the hunter didn’t intend to let that happen.  He raised the small semiautomatic and fired. His aim was true, breaking the clavical on the would-be killer’s right side, shattering the bone connecting the shoulder blade to the sternum.  The Glock fell from the fingers of he who was now the prey and clattered onto the concrete.

The unfortunate gunman stared dumbly at his weapon now lying out of reach.  He looked toward the sound of the shot, unbelieving. Who would have the nerve to attack him?  He killed people. No one killed him.

He who was now the hunter spoke loudly.  Calmly.

“Run.”

The kneeling man scampered to his feet and ran to his car.  He quickly got in, started the engine, and raced out of the garage.

He who was now the prey stood motionless in the garage, his right arm hanging helplessly.  He watched as he who was now the hunter raised his weapon again and fired two more shots. Both found their mark.

He who was now the prey lay on the cold concrete.  His unseeing eyes remained uselessly open.

He who was now the hunter walked away, thinking again of a French 75.  It was, after all, his favorite cocktail. And he pictured the lobster with brandy-orange sauce that was planned for dinner.

The cop arrived on the scene a bit quicker on the sixth day.  Still he was not in time to catch he who was now the hunter. Again he knew the victim. Again he thought his death was no great loss.  And again the fear of vigilante justice arose.

On the seventh day the man who was now the hunter made no attempt to hide in the shadows.  In the middle of the day he walked into the crowd of homeless. He knew he would find his target easily.

Surely, there was he who had been the hunter but was now the prey.  In the mind of he who was now the hunter this target was the worst of the bunch.  As bad as the other two were, at least they had reasons for what they did. Awful reasons.  Unacceptable reasons. Unforgivable reasons. But there was motivation that could be quantified if not understood.

This target did what he did from sheer meanness.  There was no other word for it. He was mean.

He who was now the prey was homeless himself.  Overweight. Dressed in dirty but serviceable clothing, his dark hair and beard long but somewhat combed, he was working on a much older homeless man.  The old man’s thin, gray hair and beard were unkempt and matted. He was dressed in rags. His feet were bare. Tattered pants were too short, exposing thin legs.  A body emaciated from too much alcohol and drugs. Not enough food.

The younger man, he who was now the prey, was beating the old man mercilessly.

“You held out on me, old man,” he who was now the prey said.  “You somehow got your hands on ten dollars and didn’t turn it over.  You’ll pay, old man.”

He who was now the prey struck the old man again.  Again. Again. Blood spurted from the old man’s nose.  From his mouth. At least one tooth had been knocked out.

He who was now the prey reached down to his pile of belongings and retrieved a long, slightly curved sword.  A katana. The classic sword of the Japanese samurai. He spread his legs, holding the sword above his head, stomping his feet in imitation of samurai he had seen in the movies.

He who was now the hunter laughed out loud.  So loud that the crowd looked in his direction.  The phony samurai heard, too. He turned to look in the same direction.

He who was now the hunter spoke loudly, calmly, as he raised the subcompact handgun.

“You have nothing to fear,” he said to the crowd of homeless.  “Move away from the fool.”

No one had to point out the fool.  They all moved away from the man holding the katana.  The bloodied old man crawled painfully away

“That little gun won’t stop a samurai,” he who was now the prey said.

“Perhaps not,” he who was now the hunter replied.  “But you’re no samurai.”

He who was now the prey grunted in anger.  In a style he thought a samurai should grunt.  He stomped a foot as he thought a samurai should.

He who was the hunter smiled, raised the small handgun and fired a nine-millimeter round into the lower right leg of he who was now the prey, breaking the tibia.  The would-be samurai fell heavily to the ground. He dropped the katana. He who was now the hunter saw a hand reach from the crowd attempting to grasp the weapon.

“Leave it.”

The grasping hand disappeared back into the crowd.

He who was now the hunter was finding it difficult to breathe.  The simple act of drawing breath had been getting harder as the seven days went by.  He knew it wouldn’t be long.

He raised his weapon.  His arm wavered. He lowered the weapon.

“Your tibia is broken,” he observed.  “That’s a very painful injury. You’ll be limping along with difficulty for the rest of your life.  Your days of bullying are over. You have made these people live in fear. Now you will live in fear.”

The cop arrived on the scene before he who was now the hunter left.

He got out of his car but was careful to keep the vehicle between him and the armed man.  He didn’t understand why the man was killing these people. It was true they were all bad people.  Evil people. But the cop couldn’t be sure that it would stop there.

“Drop the weapon, sir,” the cop said.

“Sorry, officer,” said he who was now the hunter.  “Can’t do that.”

He turned to face the cop.

The cop didn’t carry a handgun.  He didn’t care for them. He did, however, keep the M1, popularly known as the Garand, chambered for a 30.06 and carried by his grandfather in World War II, in his vehicle.  During hunting season he used it to bring home moose and caribou. Meat for the winter.

When hunting season ended he left the rifle in his car.  He cautiously withdrew it now from the custom scabbard behind the front seat.

“Sorry, officer,” came the same reply.

He who was now the hunter took two staggering, stumbling steps forward.

The cop raised the rifle and fired, aiming for the ground in front of he who was now the hunter.  The cop saw the dust the bullet raised between the legs of the now physically unstable man.

Much to the cop’s surprise, he who was now the hunter fell forward onto his face.

The cop ran toward him.  First taking the small semiautomatic from the man’s hand, he turned him over.

“There are Rock Cornish game hen and lobster leftovers in the refrigerator,” said he who was now the hunter, gasping for air.  “Sorry I prepared nothing for this evening.”

The cop looked puzzled.

He who was now the hunter smiled.

“It is the last day.”

He who was now the hunter took a last breath before closing his eyes.