It’s a job.
I have a calling card so to speak, that of leaving three in the head and one in the heart. I’ve heard some guys leave slashes with a knife making an “x”; some their initials. I think that’s silly. I don’t mind the wet work but cutting one’s initials in the mark is just a bit too much for my likings.
I had a job once to end the life of a round heeled bitch of an acquaintance of mine. She knew the score the minute she saw me. Two thousand bucks was lot money even back then just to plug a friend’s bitch, but he wanted her gone; gone for good. He was a bit more than pissed at her for running around on him. The big two grand pay day proved that to me.
She begged me not to mess her face up. Gee how one’s fame gets around. I promised her and plugged one into her heart. Since she was dead I figured what the hell and put my three calling cards in her forehead. So much for begging, I got a paying customer to keep happy; besides he’s a friend of mine.
People are funny; let them get a little close to you and they start asking all kinds of fucking stupid questions. “What was your hardest job?” “Do you enjoy killing people?” Really? What the fuck is that? I answered with three to their stupid heads and one to the stinking heart; I hate people. Sometimes I wonder if I might have a problem.
I’ve had a few girl friends over the years; blondes mostly. I don’t know why but the blond ones just seem to be what I’m drawn to. Pretty faces, killer bodies; some with smarts, some dumb as a box of rocks. They think it’s exciting what I do for a living. Most I tire of and leave my calling card on their heads; whatever.
I ran into this one broad that talked without taking a breath for hours about how she did this and did that. Blah Blah Blah. Turns out she went to school to be a head doctor. She was all over me with questions. She wanted to make me her lab rat. That bitch could talk a mile a minute and didn’t shut up until I put the first one right between her pretty blue eyes. I hate the fucking doctor types. All questions; how does that make you feel? Did you fuck your mother?
My worst job was this uppity rich fuck. Five thousand bucks to end his miserable life. Usually your mark has a schedule that they live their pitiful lives by. This ass was all over the board. Never a set time leaving for work, lunch anywhere from noon to three, never home after the five o’clock hour, nope not this one, he’d leave for work anywhere between eight and eleven. Two hour lunches, longer if he was banging some new bitch. Home at all hours of the evening. He was driving me crazy. I had to get this job done; I had other business to take care of. Giving up I made an appointment with his secretary for three in the afternoon. She led me in and sure enough dumb ass was sitting like a stuffed duck behind his over large ego desk. I took a seat as offered; the one on the right. Big shot started into his gaggle and I pulled my gun out screwing the silencer on the barrel. He watched the whole thing not missing a word of his spiel. I think he only figured it out when I sighted down the barrel and my first round hit his forehead. I thanked the front desk girl on the way out.
Jobs don’t always go as one might want. I had this one guy that was paying a thousand and a half. It was mid winter and the streets were slick with ice. I followed him up 2nd avenue and just before he went into a café I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned just as planned. I had my barrel two inches from his forehead when I slipped on the ice and landed on my ass. Eyes the size of dinner plates he turned on his heel and jerked the door open. Thinking he’d make it into the restaurant and maybe out the back door; who fucking knows. He made two steps before I had my gun up and firing into his ass. The rounds pushed him into the café and he landed five feet right in front of the bar. I was so fucking pissed at falling on my ass I gave him four in the head. I demanded and got seventeen hundred for the job.
I tried to retire once. Thousands in the bank from hundreds of jobs over the years. The calls just kept coming. I raised my rates; turned down all but the ones that might be a challenge. The calls and jobs just wouldn’t stop. I started to take only jobs that had multiple hits to accomplish; they paid the best. You want the whole front Office killed, I was your man.
I really only remember one job; the rest are just numbers, moments to be forgotten the same every time. It was a Tuesday morning; seventh of March if I remember right. The lottery was up to twenty two million seven hundred thousand. Not a record but damn close. Two weeks after the winners were announced my private phone was ringing off its hooks. Silly fucker forgot, neglected to put his ten bucks into the business pool. They’d won fair and square; he wanted them all dead. I took the job for ten thousand bucks cash, all up front. It was easy really; they had a party to celebrate their good fortune. I walked in with the caterer and faked myself as a photographer. As they were blowing out the candles I was blowing out their brains with a full auto MP5 I’d stolen from the local Police department. Going through two full mags, I had to do some cleaning up with my side arm. I was in and out in only five minutes. That’s a good hourly wage if you ask me.
There’s this building up on 43rd Street that some rich guy is fixing up and turning it into an apartment building. I liked the location so I bought a floor. The whole damn thing ten thousand square feet; living in style now. I’ve semi-retired, I’ve only been doing a job about every other month.
Bought a cat; furry little fuck but she loves me and wants my lap every minute I’m home. I’m thinking of putting in a pistol range; movie theater too. I don’t go out much, only if the weather is sunny and warm. The cleaning lady asked me the other day if I’d been sleeping ok. I about gagged; she die if she knew how I made all my money. No doubt about it, she’d die for sure.
I sleep just fine; to me it’s a job, I got no worries.
From the Ramblings