Last night

I get out the car and approach Eagle Heights. I hate flats, the lifts never work and when they do they stink of urine. Not to mention that numerous flights of stairs hardly make a quick get away if anything goes wrong. I buzz the buzzer for number twenty four. “What?” I’m asked, “parcel for a Mr Hobart” I answer. “bring it up, sixth floor” I’m instructed. I try the elevator and surprise surprise, it doesn’t work. I start my trek up the stairs, the lift must have been broken for a while as the stairs stink as well. I reach the sixth floor and give twenty four a short knock. As the front door is opened something hits me straight in the face. No, not Mr Hobart.

A smell, a smell of chip fat and fry ups. It was so overpowering, I nearly emptied the contents of my stomach on Hobart’s feet. I looked up into his face and I realized the reason for the smell. I was staring at a heart attack on legs. Hobart was five foot four and eighteen stone of fat. Most people have eight pints of blood, but not Hobart, oh no. I’d put money on it that he had two pints of blood and six pints of cooking oil, all floating around that deep fat fryer he calls a body. I stare at the food stained thermal vest, the threadbare boxers and the Homer Simpson slippers. Then I notice that his fat treble chinned mouth is moving, but I can’t hear a word he says. I’m too busy watching pieces of sausage and fried bread fall from the village people mustache he has.

I realize he has stopped talking, I apologize and ask him to repeat what he said. “where’s my parcel? He asks “who is it from?” a small smile touches my lips “it’s from your ex wife” I answer as I put my hand in my belt pouch, “its about nine millimeters”. I see shook and recognition light up his face as he realizes who and what I am. He throws his hands up to protect himself but its too little too late. There is a small “put, put” from my silenced hand gun and down Mr Hobart goes. One in the chest and one in the head just as requested.

I step over the body and close the front door behind me. I make my way to the bedroom, I flip the mattress spilling a half eaten sausage, chips and beans. Under the mattress, just like she told me I would, I find a bag. In that bag is £48,000 cash and two hand guns. Now I’ve done jobs like this a few times before. Deliver and collect. I deliver a bullet or two in this case, and I collect cash. every time I’ve been tempted to take the money. I don’t because my client has killed for the money once and my life is hard enough without looking over my shoulder everyday. So I sling the bag over my shoulder and go back to the front room. Every job I do I take a Polaroid photo for proof so I get paid. This is when things get seriously messed up.

The End

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