The campanile struck midnight. Six hours left. Six hours until I would be killed, executed. Executed because I had done what only others dreamed of doing; killing all those annoying politicians who thought that they were always right, that they were above everyone else.
I showed them they weren’t. I struck out against them, laying a powerful blow to the political system of California before I was caught by that lowlife detective Calvin Duster.
Just thinking of his name, the bastard caused a burning rage to fuel inside my being. One mistake. That was it, just one damn mistake. I allowed myself to enjoy my work a little too much. Decided to go further than just simply killing them.
And it had cost me. Cost me my life, my work. I knew it was my obligation to rid the world of those corrupt beings, but he stopped me. I hated him for that. He was just too stupid to understand the importance in what I did. The necessity of my actions.
Of course it didn’t change that much. I had followers, many, and they excitedly took up what I had left behind. Riots were started, more people killed, and most importantly: the world understood that something could be done against the politicians.
But I needed more time. More time to work with my successor: a young man who had visited me several weeks before. After only five minutes I knew he was the one. The one to continue my legacy.
So I bashed my head against the wall of my cell repeatedly. Those idiots, needing their prisoners to be in perfect health before they were able to be killed. So I continued until there was a large gash in my skull, the wound bleeding profusely. Now I had a little more time before my execution; respite to carry out my work.