Nights in East Warren

Here is the start of a short story, I'd like some criticism, as brutal as you've got.
You might notice less than perfect grammar: most of that is deliberate. If something flat out doesn't make sense, please tell me.
Logical inconsistencies and discontinuities should be frequent, I'd like to hear about them too.
If the style sucks, let me know.

I have practiced and practiced and practiced. Olympians work hard, no doubt, but they have lives, friends, families, hobbies. I have nothing, nothing in the world but a pair of .45s, a 12 gauge pump, a bolt action .30-06. Nothing to do but practice, nothing to do but shoot. Learned to make my own bullets, shoot just as hard, just as straight, tenth the price. Practice for speed, accuracy, shooting, reloading, working the bolt, working the pump. Moving targets, stationary targets. Nothing but perfect accuracy, nothing but perfect speed.
Thousands of rounds, hundreds of thousands, millions. Over and over and over again. Out in the desert, alone. Two years, every day, ten hours a day, more. Practicing long and hard, longer and harder than anyone has ever practiced. One goal in mind, one overriding purpose.
There is a time for everyone, a bullet. It's someone's time in East Warren. There are bullies, thieves, perverts, rapists, killers. Not many, not as many as other cities, but this is, was, my home, my town.
Justice, karma: slow. .45 ACP bullets: fast.

The Greek Café. Jeffery's uncle's place. I came a couple times when I was a kid. Haven't been here in years. I order a gyro sandwich and coffee the color and taste of ink. Wait it out, almost closing time, get used to the place again. Clock hits nine, people start heading out. I stay, sip my bitter coffee, wait.
Jeffery's uncle, Peter Karamanlis, cleans up, starts to close down. Seems to hope I'll get the hint and get the hell out. I don't. Walks up, says, "We are closing." Heavy Greek accent.
Look him in the eye: "You don't recognize me."
Looks me over, "Russell! I haven't seen you in years! You are so skinny now!"
"I am going to kill you"
Laughs, thinks it's a joke, "Russell, we've missed you. What have you been up to?"
"I know what you did to Jeffery when we were kids. I still remember"
Scared, knows what I know. Stares slack-jawed stupid.
Drop a ten on the table for the food. Up and out the door. Peter still standing.

Rented apartment, nothing special. Small, cheap. Fold-out couch and a mini-fridge, microwave. Footlocker for my guns. Bad part of town, not going to run into old friends.
Take out the rifle, clean it, oil it, check the sight. Fill the clip: five bullets. Set it in the gym bag, walk out to the car: casual. Slow cruise down to Peter's place.

The roof across the street: a view into Peter's apartment. Standing in the kitchen, fixing a drink. Line up the shot: right through the stomach. Squeeze slow, steady. The trigger clicks, the hammer swings, the primer ignites, the powder explodes, the bullet fires. Perfect shot, Peter goes down, spills his drink. Work the bolt, fire again, right ankle, again, left thigh.
Steady, aim: a phone by the refrigerator. Fire: gone, useless. One more by the couch: blown to bits. Watch Peter. Punctured lung: can't scream. Damaged legs: can't run. Broken phones: can't call for help. Hole through the stomach: slow, agonizing death.
Rifle back in the gym bag, collect the casings, down the fire escape, into the car, back home. Nobody saw me, it's possible nobody heard me. I wore gloves, no fingerprints. No evidence I was up there, nobody will even know Peter died for at least another few hours, maybe a couple days. I am clear.