Kneeling down, I looked into the eyes of the man lying slumped in front of me, cold and stiff. He hadn't been a very nice man; arguably he hadn't even been a man. In life, he had been nothing more than a smear on this wonderful world, and I - as I so enjoyed - had cleaned up once more.
I'm a hitman, see, that's what I do for a living, and when somebody is doing something that they should be doing, I'm normally hired to stop them doing whatever that is that they're doing that they shouldn't be. This unlucky bastard was just one in a long list that I had killed for money and to a lesser extent the feeling that the world could be a little bit nicer. And he was just one more crossed off my long, long list.
There was still a little bit of blood specked across my hands, and so I wiped them across his shirt before getting to my feet and taking a deep breath. Normally I wasn't this messy, but this guy had put up quite a fight, and so had I. And obviously I had come out on top, but that's neither here nor there. The point was that I now had to remove the body without being seen in the middle of the day. Who takes a contract killing in the middle of the day? What was I thinking...?
A loud and shrill giggle from outside distracted me from the body and how to safely and subtly dispose of it in broad daylight. Well, I say distracted me, but let's face it, if you'd just killed somebody I'm sure you'd find it hard to push it to the back of your mind at the drop of a hat. For the sake of being clear, let's just say I heard a giggle, and whilst retaining my worries about the body, showed an interest and walked over to one of the windows that overlooked the street outside.
At this point I should be clear: this isn't my house. This is or was the house of the unfortunate chump who bled out by my hand in his bedroom earlier today. The street had been empty when I walked up it to get to the house, and nobody had seen me come in, so I knew it was safe enough to kill this man in the daytime. But things were changing now as cars were driving up and down, stacked to the top with boxes and lampshades and typical tell-tale signs that people were moving in. And not just to one house, but to a whole bunch. For a brief moment I considered walking out of the house and shouting, "Okay, Ashton Kutcher, you got me, yeah, I've been Punk'd real good!" But that idea quickly became a bad one.
The problem remained: people were moving in to houses all up and down The Street. The Street, that's what it was called. This confused me. Was it just called the street, or was it called The Street because it was named after somebody or something called The? I didn't have time to think about it further. Instead I just gazed out into The Street and imagined all the people who would be moving in near this house, and how none of them could possibly be more dangerous than me, a hitman.
My house now. Might as well be. The dead son of a bitch wouldn't be needing it.