ROBERT JAMES WARNER
Four thugs, two men and two women, all armed with pistols, hijack The Mark's car and kidnap him in Don Laughlin's Riverside Casino parking lot in Laughlin, Nevada, in broad daylight, then drive calmly out of the parking lot.
The hijackers threaten The Mark (a victim) with death if he resists in any way, then they rob him, call him racists slur names, slap him, and laugh at him, but they don't search him, a very big mistake!
Evidently heading for Mexico to sell the car, a Cadillac, the hijackers stopped in the desert, miles from a town, and let The Mark out without food or water, saying, you can walk to the nearest town and laughed tauntingly at him, then The Mark takes out a CO2 pistol and shoots each of them, stunning them, but not killing them, capturing them and tying them up, then he drives on planning his revenge, and revenge it is, with a vengeance! The four hijackers are now in the evil power of a sociopath, a real bad guy criminal 100 times worse than the four hijackers who kidnaped him, robbed him, slapped him, called him racist slur names and hijacked his car.
Bill is a brutal, cruel, merciless, callous criminal with a big difference: Bill doesn't prey on the innocent, he preys on the criminal scum of society, his credo: loot the looters and he does and gets rich doing it and rids his country of the criminal scum infesting our present day world!
No torment the hijackers could imagine could be as agonizing, humiliating, and cruel as the brutal revenge The Mark unleashed on them for hijacking his car and kidnapping him, robbing him, calling him racist slug names, slapping him, and for planning to abandon him in the desert without food and water.
When The Mark has finished his diabolic revenge he leaves then in a tent in a campground to wake up to the horror of The Mark's last fiendish revenge that will make their lives a living hell for the rest of their lives!
Robert James Warner was born on September 6, 1925, in Long Beach, California, one of a set of twin boys.
He was raised in Long Beach, California, attending the local schools.
He was drafted into the Navy on March 9th, 1944 (WW2), when he finished High School.
He was discharged from the Navy on June 16, 1946.
He went to Long Beach City College, on the G.I.Bill, taking mechanical engineering, then journalism. About a year and a half later he quit.
Mr. Warner was an avid reader of books, which ignited an interest in writing fiction.
During the next few years he wrote some songs and some poetry and some short stories. His output was quite low.
From 1947 to 1950, after leaving City College, Mr. Warner had a number inconsequential jobs, the longest at Douglas Aircraft in Long Beach for eight months, then he quit.
In 1950 he enlisted in the Active Naval Reserve. Three months later, the Korean War started and Mr. Warner was called back into the Navy Aircorp in July, discharged in August, 1951, serving on three aircraft carriers, off of Korea, bombing and strafing the communists!
After Korea, 1951, Mr. Warner went to sea on a freighter as a deckhand, making two trips to the Hawaiian Islands, 30 days round trip, hauling bulk sugar for C&H Sugar in Crocket, California, on the Sacramento River.
Leaving the ship in Crocket, Mr. Warner went to Santa Rosa, California, where he washed dishes in some restaurants and got a poem published in the local newspaper, a big day in his life.
That spring, 1952, he went to Yosemite, washed some more dishes, then went home and back to City College majoring in journalism, writing a column on the college newspaper.
Mr. Warner has cleaned chicken dung from under the pens; he owned and operated his own auto wrecking yard; owned his own 2nd Store; worked as a copyboy on the Long Beach Press-Telegram; was half owner of a Yacht Landing; speculated in Real Estate and worked at some other odd jobs, going to work for the
Long Beach Fire Department in 1953 for the next 26 years, retiring in October, 1979.
Mr. Warner got married in 1961, had his son in 1963; was divorced in 1973.
The summer of 1974, Mr. Warner and his son, Jeff, drove to Alaska. On his return, Mr. Warner wrote his first novel, a huge science-fiction-fantasy novel of over 2,000 pages, The Island of Eden, which he has self-published with Author House, in three volumes.
This is the 37th book Mr. Warner has written and self-published with Author House, including novels; one poetry book, Popcorn and Soda Pop; one non-fiction book, the Origin of Life; and short story collections.
Mr. Warner is hard at work on other writing projects.
About 30 minutes out of Parker, Arizona, the hijackers pulled over to the side of the road and stopped, the driver putting the car in park, as desolate a spot as one could find on the globe. The Mexican, the leader, driving again, told the Mark, "Git out, ya Anglo asshole, you c'n walk back t'Parker from here. You're lucky we doen kill ya, ya gringo piece a shit. Keep your mouth shut or we'll come back an' kill ya. Thanks for the car!" then they all laughed loudly and tauntingly at the Mark!
The Mark opened the door and got out, his back to the hijackers. He reached under his coat and drew a gun, then he turned slowly and shot the Mexican at the steering wheel in the head then he shot the three hijackers in the back seat, his gun making just a soft puffing noise like a BB gun, which was what it was, a high powered CO2 gun, shooting 30 caliber steel balls, but not powerful enough to kill, just hurt like hell, which it did. The Mexican under the steering wheel was knocked out when the steel ball hit him in the side of the head, cutting the skin on the side of his head, which began to bleed as he fell sideways on the seat.
Cleo, who had stuck up the Mark in the parking lot, and who had slapped him, got hit in the center of her chest, knocking the wind out her, her clothes keeping her from getting her skin cut, but she would have a huge black and blue bruise; the other woman got hit in the chest just below her throat, inches away from the soft spot there, which could have killed her, the steel ball cutting her skin, then falling on her lap, the pain so intense that she was helpless. She scrammed loudly and began to bleed; the Blackman got hit in the forehead which knocked him out too, out like a light, and just as quietly, the steel ball slicing the skin of his forehead as it ricocheted up hitting the headliner above his head then falling on him as he slumped over and began to bleed.
The Mark stood looking at the results of his excellent shooting with a small smile of triumph as he put his CO2 gun back in its holster under his left arm, then he quickly searched three of the hijackers, the two women and the Blackman, taking their guns and the women's purses just in case they had other weapons inside them, and taking back his own personal property they'd stolen from him, then he closed the door and calmly walked around to the other side and searched the unconscious Mexican, took his gun and took back his own property, then pushed him roughly out from under the steering wheel to the other side of the seat then he got in and drove off, driving slowly as he considered what to do next? The hijackers had been so over-confident that he wouldn't cause any trouble that they had not even searched him, which made the Mark smile at such careless stupidity with immense gratitude, the hijacker's careless stupidity had made it possible for him to turn the tables on them and capture them.
The Mark had some getting even to do and he was going to do it with huge relish and enthusiasm. The hijackers could never have imagined what was going to happen to them could happen to them!!!
The Mark drove on slowly considering ways and means of teaching the hijackers a lesson, a BIG LESSON, a lesson that would last a life time?!
The Mark called himself Bill Anson, William Darrell Anson. It wasn't his real name, and he was a thoroughly bad guy, a real bad guy, known to many police departments as Mr. X, an unknown serial killer, robber, mugger, rapist, swindler, and extortionist, a young man who was nothing at all like the clean cut young white American man he was taken for, an image he had deliberately trained himself to emphasize because it was to his benefit to do so.
He was 32 but looked about 25, and he knew his way around in the dark world of the underworld where it was possible to get anything, anything, if ya had the money and contacts, and Bill had lots of money and lots of contacts!
He especially had new identities, which he changed often to keep the cops off of his trail! His latest identity was Bill Anson, with all of the documents to prove it.
