"It's nothing personal" i reassure him, "someone has to do it, it's just my job.". He raises his head from his hands, for the first time in a while. I can not believe what i see, the bullet hole in his head, (the one i put there ten minutes ago) has gone, vanished not a mark. i look down at his chest, where a few minutes previous his drink was dribbling out of another bullet wound. Again not a mark, Just a wet patch from his spillage. I rubbed at my eyes, i could not understand what was happening. Was i dreaming? i must be things like this just don't happen. People don't come back to life, bullet wounds don't heal themselves in the matter of minutes, and more importantly dead people do not move or talk. Hobart must of seen something in my eyes that gave my distress away. "Whats wrong?" he asks. Hell, I think, he did ask, so i give it to him straight. "whats wrong is that i have just shot you twice. Once in the head and once in the chest. Why is not important . All you need to know is that you was dead, you should still be dead. But your not, your sitting discussing headaches with me. Why?" Now i have to tell you, i hate a smart arse, and Mr Hobart he thinks he's a smart arse. "You just said the why is not important" he says. I lose it, I flip out i dive the six foot gap dividing us and wrap my vice like hands around Hobart's neck. Strangulation is one of my favorite services i offer, its personal and people feel like they get their monies worth. So i have my hands around his neck, ringing the life out of him. Squeezing him dry like a dish clothe. His face goes purple as he struggles for breath. He claws at my arms and hands trying to get free, but it doesn't help. i watch as his eyes slowly bulge out and go blood shot. It's like watching a washing machine fill up. Red faced and red eyed he finally succumbs to the necessity for oxygen. Out of breath and exhausted, (mentally and physically) i sit on the sofa, next to the man i have shot twice and strangled. it's my turn now to sit with my head in my hands. I sit for five maybe ten minutes when i decide i had better leave. i take the Polaroid camera out of it's case and stand to take a picture. This has to be the worst part of my job, photographing my kills for proof and payment. no matter how many times i do it it still bugs me. The flash goes, the camera whirs and the picture slides out the bottom. I leave it on the arm of the sofa and walk to the kitchen. Ever since my first job, when i was dying of thirst, I've made it a regular thing to check peoples fridges. I normally find a cold drink, hopefully a beer. It's thirsty work being a hit man. The minute i touch the fridge handle i regret it, my leather gloves stick to the layer of fat covering it. Inside the fridge i find sausages, eggs, beans, full fat milk and several blocks of lard. Not one beer or cold drink. In my disappointment i talk to myself, "Great, no coke, no beer, no nothing." you can imagine my shock and surprise when i recognize a voice calling out "the beer is in the freezer, you can't drink warm beer and i only just got in when you knocked."