After becoming disillusioned with humanity, reality, Christmas, the atomists—frivolous nonsense like that—I found myself unable to see others, unable to perceive souls. Trapped in shifting rooms with unrepentant creatures of a different species was petrifying. I looked for a cure to keep my mind from tearing itself apart. I took the exciting, resume-packing role of mercenary. Challenging, rare, and in demand at the time, it was a something of a home business for me. I became an entrepreneur.
                  What I did to achieve the mercenary-entrepreneur status was nothing short of inventive. The mafia no longer existed, sadly, but crime syndicates did and through obscure aptly named gangs who were affluent in profit producing ventures like the drug trade, sugar exports, and counterfeit Hello Kitty merchandise. Wanting to avoid having their members constantly arrested or killed, these gangs contracted out their hit jobs to mercenaries keen on striking gold in an aging untapped market. Not like that pansy-ridden vigilante nonsense. If I wanted to help the police force I’d jump off a bridge.
                     I eventually got a call after hanging around in the right spots and meeting the right people. The next day I started a five-day waiting period at my local gun shop for a cute little 9MM pistol and before I knew it, I had killed two and half people in a Pottery Barn or whatever it was. The light of God had been found through shameless, paid murder.
            I did not have some pretentious titular floating marquee over my head reading hitman. I was never the living image of some haughty television serial killer with a chiselled jaw and perfect hair, tailor-made clothes and a decorated décor home. If one were to visit my two-bedroom apartment the only certainty one would come across is an addiction to frozen meals and an unrealistic love for action-packed twenty year old shoot-em-up movies. The rest of was a traditional bachelor arrangement with hollow Wal-Mart and Ikea produced photography. I never wore nice cloths, either. Jeans and a sweater did quite nicely. Maybe a ball cap and backpack. Transportation was nothing special either. I bought a rather evil looking used 1973 Jaguar XJS and named it Lucifer, because (a) I watch too much television and (b) T.V robbed me of creativity—presupposing that I had any to begin with.
            After those disastrous mall murders I wasn’t too confident about the profession—disastrous, of course, in terms of my dignity. I was a living lame joke too those in the trade. But I had just begun and I had quite the advantage for success. For starters, my eye colour changes depending on mood. My name can be found nearly three dozen times in the phone book. My blood type is very common. I have no previous criminal record. No outstanding debt, no credit cards or unpaid liabilities. But the morceau de résistance is my skin colour. It’s almost impossible to discern an ethnicity. I’m not much of anything meaning police are left with lists of possible suspects. These gave me the advantages too keep to my work without worrying about the authorities always breathing down my neck, and if there’s one quality that’s a foremost rarity to mercenary work, its sustainability.
            A good illustration of this involved one mission where I was to quickly walk into some monstrosity of a McDonalds, kill this one guy and then simply leave. The target was on high alert after having already injured another ill-prepared contract killer. The target moved about on a consistent basis, never staying long in a single area. If he was hungry he only ate at fast-food restaurants. Amongst those who wanted him whacked, this man became notorious for his obese-producing worship of the cheeseburger. He spent so much time dotting around eating at those toxic waste facilities, that he was known as McTarget, because along with newspaper editors, criminal syndicates also lack creative thinking.
                      After an exhaustive search I found McTarget in said McDonalds. He was broad and slightly over weight with an odd skin colour, almost like a dehydrated banana. In a place so heavily sedated with security cameras I usually avoided spending any more then a few seconds getting the job done. Unfortunately, the quick-witted McTarget was expecting a swift attack. I would have to be a little more patient.
                 When I arrived, McTarget had just started filling his cup with soda-pop eyeing with vehement suspicion every single customer that walked through the door, trying to check and see if anyone of them was a murderer. For the occasion, I wore a hat to hide my face and dressed myself up in a business suit as if I had finished another dreary day at an office.
                   With an innocent appearance ready too be tested, I walked into the rather empty McDonalds like any regular curious customer not there to shot someone with a 9MM. The predictably monotonous cashier behind the counter asked me what I wanted. Without hesitation I ordered some burger of some sort. I didn’t realize it initially, but I just made a profound mistake. McTarget, who was quite a distance behind me, suddenly got up from his seat. Not the discrete sort of man, I could tell without looking that he was lumbering towards me. The mystery lied within whether or not he had found me out or simply wanted more ketchup. And then it finally struck me: I had forgotten to read the overhead menu like the good little sparkling-eyed fast-food customer I was supposed to be.
                I spun around on my right foot and fired my pistol without aiming. McTarget ducked and I clearly missed. It was quite a feat of athleticism on his part, given I was the size of postage stamp compared to him. Before I could stop and think about firing again, I soon realized I had been shot.
McTarget had produced a gun. The bullet had pierced right through my inadequate left arm and hit the cashier in the right shoulder (he would survive to continue working at McDonalds). I had this very peculiar sensation of emptiness throughout my left arm, as if it was nothing more then a leaded weight. I could feel the skin holding onto flesh like an elastic band around a balloon. I dropped my gun in order to cup the wound with my right hand. Being shot for the very first time was not a basket of cup cakes.
                    I was feeling pretty bad at that moment. My blood began to burn as different things struck me in the head. I would need to seek medical attention, my expensive rented suit would have to be paid in full, my safety from jail was jeopardized. The wobbly voices of all those who had wronged me in my life twirled. Fuming with the sweet taste of anger I advanced on the McTarget, who by this point was struggling, rather pathetically, to stand back up and finish securing his life. He didn’t struggle hard enough. He fired his gun again while kneeling on one leg, but the projectile only brazed the far side of my knee cap. I fearlessly walked up to him and snatched the gun cleanly from his hands. He started to laugh with a jolly chuckle, his bulging unnatural stomach wiggling like a limp trampoline. I pulled the trigger on his weighty silver gun three or four times. I couldn’t remember in the rush of things. I pocketed McTarget’s shiny new pistol, I picked up my own from the bloody floor and left for a mob hospital.
                  McTarget is still alive today. If I had known high amounts of fat made one impervious to bullets I would have stuffed my face with donuts for breakfast a long time ago. Weirdly enough, thought, McTarget realized fast-food consumerism had saved his lifestyle. So he quit the crime business and decided to do something much, much worse for society: he opened up his own McDonalds restaurant. We still in the misconduct industry simply forgot about him, well aware he was destined to die peacefully from a stroke or a heart attack or a fatal motorized-scooter accident.


The End

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