I'm just walking here, in a straight line, man. This straight line, it's got nothing to it you know. I step forward, on and on with the road in front of me. In my pocket is of course, my wallet. I have all my important credentials in it, ranging from an ID card for the state of California to an arcade card, with all the points I've earned there. One thousand and eighty six points. One thousand and eighty six points of effort that could've gone somewhere more worthwhile.

I admit, I'm a nerd. In fact, I'm so much of a nerd that in a desperate attempt to live a little, I took up the life of a drifter. I packed all my things, bought a decent pistol-- a Walther P90 and I began a cross-state adventure into the unknown. There's of course, something else to this. I mean, a humble nerd doesn't just up and leave his life because he doesn't deem his day to day experience fun enough, right?

"Onwards to the deepest corner of the Earth."

That line suddenly struck me. Early into my adventure, I encountered another drifter, a native American, to be exact. He was middle aged, had wrinkles etched on his face, and a voice raspier than Lou Reed's. We only met for three minutes at a rest stop. After he uttered those words with a half smile and a half glare, he waved goodbye and I never saw him again.

I am still walking. The road ahead is barren and bleak. Cars whiz by with little thought to the humble drifter walking alongside them. His scruffy beard, beady blue eyes and bushy hair tell a sad tale. A tale too sad to touch the pure hearts of the children.

A sign stands in front of me. "10 Miles to San Diego" it says. I remember that place. I was born there. I lived sixteen of my eighteen aimless years on that godforsaken city. I went to a pathetic private school filled with sad, supremacist Mexicans. All the white people there were weak, and the black people were overshadowed by the Mexicans. Us Asians, we were at the bottom rung. Especially me, Jackie Hsu. What with my laughably struggled English and my penchant for all things Bruce Lee. I was a walking stereotype. A permanent constipated expression on my face, straight As, drives a Daewoo. My logic got the best of me, and as a result, I didn't take proper action. But today, I'm going to do back these... bastards.

But before that, let's go back a bit. Back to six years ago. I was a twelve year old lad, merrily chomping on his egg salad sandwich watching Will Smith and his wacky antics on Fresh Prince. My father spoke to me, we were alone in the living room, and his face had an unmistakable expression of anguish.

"Son, I've got to tell you something,"

"Yeah?"

"Well, remember those few months where everyday I came home with a gift from work?"

"Yeah, dad! I remember that BIG teddy bear you got me! I love it so much! I named him Mr. Sni--"

"I need it back, son."

"But Mr. Sniffy is my friend!"

"I need it back. That's an order." My father slightly raised his voice and developed a stoic expression as the sentence ended.

I was crushed at this point, and ran out of the house, tears dripping down my cheeks and staining my Nirvana tee shirt. I came to a sudden halt in front of two menacing men. Who pushed me aside and entered my home. I studied them for a moment then heard a struggle, then a bang.

The memory ended there, and I was tormented for the next five years. It turns out my father was deep into the underground drug trade circuit, and all those toys he bought me were laced with trace amounts of drugs. Mr. Fondle was no exception, he was even laced with a three pound bag of pot, selling for a mighty sum. In fact, that very day he was supposed to give it back to his higher officers; those two men. He had trouble finding it, and the men were hotheaded. After he tried looking for it, they shot him dead when he turned around to get to my room.

As an eighteen year old Asian boy, with a background of martial arts training and a fascination for guns and archery, my next move didn't take much thought. I stormed their residence, guns blazing. After a long year of searching for these ruthless bastards fruitlessly, and even dipping myself in the dirty puddle of the underground drug circuit, I've finally got them.

The steps where I approached their home took forever. I was ecstatic with the thought of getting my typical revenge. I loaded my P90, I picked up some grenades from my military friends and I just savored in the events of this day. I get to tarnish my soul with the burden of killing, I get to throw this pointless life away to be remembered for something actually significant.

No scientific discoveries, no groundbreaking philosophical thoughts to spread. Just a dark, pulsing tale of a clean cut kid suddenly murdering two gentlemen. This would be made even more twisted by the fact that I was a leader in my high school days and that they served their community often. Going to mass every week, donating to the poor, the works. My research told me they were as active as ever in the business though, and they organised a lot of killings as well. And they had a slimeball of a lawyer as well, who got them to jail for only a year for that brutal murder. They mucked around that crime scene and they had a self-defense plea. My father's violent, fabricated record didn't help either.

As I arrived at the doorstep, I pushed the doorbell. I heard a friendly call of "Who is it?" and I answered "cleaning service." The amiable looking black man in his forties answered the door, and I just waved my pistol in his face and pulled the trigger. A hole penetrated through his skull, then his brain and it hit a portrait of him and his colleague right in the middle. The smoke started to emerge from the barrel of my gun, and all the kindness I've kept in my heart vanished as the smoke did. The television was on, and there was breaking news of a building being hit by an airplane of some sort. That's two more deaths today.

The other man, a personable looking Mexican came running towards the doorstep. He spouted some Mexican balderdash and brought out a Glock. I raised mine.

And so, a standoff ensued. I pulled the trigger, the bullet pierced his skull just as it pierced the other man's and he grew limp and died. Blood stained their fine carpet, and I left. I left a different man, and my soul still doesn't have the justice it has sought for so long.

Then, another road. Another thousand and eighty six hours points of effort wasted.