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
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