Georgia was my girl, she was my love. Georgia was taken from me. She is not of this earth now. Georgia awaits me in heaven.
Georgia was killed by a drunk driver last spring. Now winter is coming on and the murderer still walks the streets. He has money and a very good lawyer. His trial has been postponed repeatedly.
He has money and a good lawyer, but I have my granddaddy’s colt .45. I have decided to be judge, jury and executioner. I have waited long enough for justice.
I have followed him for the last two weeks. He goes out every night to the clubs. He does not drive now. He has a Cuban drive him in his big fancy car; the same car that took my Georgia.
It will be tonight.
As I wait in the alley for him to emerge from the newest, hottest club on Miami Beach, I think of Georgia.
My Georgia was only nineteen when we met. She was in Miami visiting a friend, and the friend suggested that she see Fort Lauderdale before she went home. I was at the bar in The Elbow Room sitting on my usual stool when they walked in. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but that night I had my doubts.
I sat there and looked on as a few guys hit on Georgia and her friend. They all walked away empty-handed. Normally, I wouldn’t have made a move, but something drew me to Georgia. She was full of life. If I could see someone’s aura, I’m sure hers would have been a light blue, a loving and pure soul she was.
To make a long and loving story shorter, I sweet-talked her phone number out of her. At that point, all I wanted to do was to get laid. But that was before I fell in love with my Georgia.
I called the the next day. We went sailing on my boat. I told her to bring her friend along so that she would feel safe. The three of us sailed the bay and then ate a picnic lunch on Elliot Key. The sun was setting into the western bay as we sailed back.
We hit Dinner Key just as it got full dark. By then I was in love.
My home base is Fort Lauderdale, about two hours up the Intercoastal Waterway.
I asked Georgia to go with me and I would send her back to Miami in a cab. To my surprise, she said yes.
In a cove off of Dania Beach, we anchored and made love. The sweetest most loving love I have ever known. From that moment on, she was “My Georgia”.
She flew home, settled matters and came back to me. We had two years before she was murdered. In those two years, I learned how to love another human being. I learned of tenderness. My Georgia taught me of love. And because of My Georgia, I will kill a man tonight.
It is coming up on 2:00 a.m., about the time the killer heads for home with his conquest of the night.
I see him now. He has his arm around a tall, skinny girl in a silver dress. He weaves as he walks. I hope and pray that he is not too drunk. I want him to know why he is going to die.
I step in front of them and tell the girl to hit the road. She hesitates, but when I raise the gun, she finds someplace else to be. Then I turn to the Cuban and say, “This ain’t your fight, and in a minute you won’t have a job.”
He hesitates also. So I explain it to him, “In one minute, your boss will be dead. Do you want a piece of what is about to go down?” I reckon he doesn’t because he shrugs and walks away.
Now it is just the murderer and me.
No . . . it is me, the murderer and my Colt.
I put a bullet into his shocked face. His blood and brains splatter the wall behind him. Then he died. So simple to kill someone. I did it with a gun; he did it with a car.
I thought I would feel better killing the son of a bitch. But you know what? It does not feel good to kill another human being. Though I am glad that I did it.
Now I am waiting for the cops. I hear the sirens nearing. But I am not worried; I will not be here when they arrive.
With the gun barrel in my mouth, I think of My Georgia and tell her that I am on my way to her.
When I see the first cop, I squeeze the trigger.