Killing For A Job



What I do is easy. During the day, I  sit in a cubicle and stare out the window, my hands almost typing the numbers by themselves. Once you do anything for a long enough peroid, it becomes habit. Like, another habit I've picked up is always having three pairs of little foam ear plugs on my person. You never know when you're gonna need those cheerful little orange or yellow wads to keep your ears from ringing. You pick up handy tricks in both my lines of work. For example, with my accounting job, a useful trick I've picked up is how to make a coffee machine actually produce coffee that tastes okay, rather than the weak excuse for coffee it normally spits out. You just use filtered water, and the taste actually increases in quality. A useful trick I've learned in my other job is that one should always have a pack of styrofoam pellets tucked away in the closet, because combining the pellets with gasoline creates a lovely paste. I find nine pellets per a cup of gasoline works very well in making the paste, which has a number of fun and exciting uses.

What I really like about my second job is that I only get paid in cash. It's never a check in the mail, or money deposited in the bank. i'll just come home a few days after a job and there'll be a wad or two of cash. It's a wonderful sense of freedom, knowing the thick stack of fifties and twenties is mine to keep and do whatever with. I could go out and buy drugs, or gun, or booze, but I don't. I tuck it away like a squirrel, hiding my money in the walls. Forty or fifty grand just sits behind the plaster, accruing a nice collection of dust bunnies as electrical wiring and puffs of pink insulation simply stay inert around them.

My life has gotten more complicated recently, however. I met a really nice girl at work, and I asked her out six months ago. Her name is Rachel Green, and we’re at the point where my good buddy Jake elbows me in the ribs and says with a wink, "Am I gonna be your best man?" whenever I get into his car. I really like her, and she really likes me, but I have no damn clue how I'm going to explain the money when she finds it. I feel guilt whenever I tell her 'I'm going out with the guys', or I tell her 'I have too much work to do to go out tonight', or the classic 'I've been feeling a little ill and I'll make it up to you'. She's bound to figure it out eventually, it isn't like she's not already suspicious. She sure as hell isn't stupid, and she's gonna catch on quick.

I'm gonna do one last hit. I've had good times, like the time we nailed the city council member as he walked out of a brothel. Me and Jake couldn't stop laughing about the stupid look on his drunk face for weeks. I've had my failures as well, like when I failed to waste the guy who nailed Fred. I tracked him down to a car-wash in Capital, and the bastard throws car polish into my eyes, then pulls out a pistol and fires a shot into my shoulder as he runs for it. Jake failed to hit him, the shot going high. We got reamed on that one, being screamed at Carlos Ferreria himself. I still count myself lucky I made it out with both my kneecaps intact. A final job won't kill me, so I'm gonna do it. If Rachel and I ever have a kid, I'll put it into his or her college account to make up for it.

After work, I merely went down into company parking. My car was gone, but it didn't bother me. It would be parked outside my apartment building, safe and sound for when I get back. Parked in it's place was Jake's sleek Hummer. Christ only knows how he afforded to even pay gas on the thing. I walked across the boiling asphalt that was heated by the falling sun to the black Hummer, climbing in the passenger side. The odd thing I always notice about Jake is that he doesn't look like he belongs in a hummer. He's thirty-six, which makes him eight years older than I am. He just wears jeans and a t-shirt, the wear and tear of his clothes being simply awful. Holes in the shirts from sparks, holes in the jeans from either wear or close bullets, but a cheerful optimism and a happy smile that makes you think he's in the wrong line of work. As I take off my tie and button down my shirt, he grins and pulls a beautiful looking Mossberg 590 from the backseat, the wood stock on the combat shotgun gleaming. He says, "Use it wisely, now. Recoil on this baby is something else, so aim low."

I merely nod as I clip my seatbelt in, the strap tightening as I stuff in one pair of earplugs. Ten minutes later, I've read the little folder Jake had on the dash. The target today is Marcus Baradwell, a local reporter who's running a report on a few local gangs and 'families', and they aren't too happy about it from the looks of it. He's having an early dinner at an outdoor cafe, so he's easy pickings. I doubt he knows the danger he's in. A few quick minutes later, we're rolling down the street at a steady pace. Mr. Baradwell does have protection from what I can pick out, one measly bodyguard sitting at the table with him, the person across from him also in the folder. It was John Elder, the editor of Baradwell's work, and I'd get five hundred bucks as a little bonus if I wasted him too, according to the folder. Editors of slander are as guilty as the person who writes the piece, after all.

As we roll by the little restaurant, I lean out the window and depress the trigger twice. The whole upper half of Marcus Baradwell simply disappears in a red haze of bone and organs. I shift my aim to the left and pull the trigger again, the helpful spread mechanics of the shotgun allowing the single shot to successfully kill Mr. Elder and the bodyguard in one echoing blast. The Hummer quickly speed away, the smile never vanishing from Jake's face, a grin appearing on my own. Nothing quite gives you an aderaline rush like killing someone.

That night, I head out to dinner with Rachel. I'm thinking of proposing, really. I think she'd say yes, I have the resources, and we both madly love eachother. It might be a little soon, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. That was Mr. Ferreria's motto, and it fit pretty well in my life too. I drive out in my nice little car, she driving out in hers. I'm wearing nice suit and she's wearing a nice dress. We both smile to eachother as we link arms and go inside. We get seated quickly, the waiter smiling at the nice couple we are when we request a bottle of the house red. An entree and a main course later, we've had pleasant conversation, plenty of laughs, and have had a fantastic time. As the waiter comes to give us the bill, I subtly signal him to give us a minute, and then I drop to one knee. I quickly pull out the ittle black box and pull open the lid, revealing a gleaming diamond ring. I'm not even thinking of what I did to get the ring. As I say, "Will you marry me?", a man in a brown suit and a deadly smile on his face comes into the establishment. He rudely elbows the waiter out of the way and draws up his FN P90, the compact gun small but deadly. He takes aim as she responds, "Yes. I love you so much, James. Marriage will be great."

The last thing I see before a three round burst suddenly drains me of the ability to kneel on one knee is her beautiful smile, her shining radiance, her eternal love. The second burst hits me as I fall, and suddenly everything begins to drain of colour and fade...

The End

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