You have got to be kidding me, i think. well to be truthful i don't know if i had time to think or if reaction took over. this can not be happening, I've shot the man twice, once in the chest and once in the head. i have strangled the man until his eyes bulged and filled with blood. Twice i have checked to see if the pain in the arse is dead and twice he has been. What the hell is up with this guy? Why can't he die like most people do? Like I said, reaction takes over. I grab the handle to the kitchen drawer, I pull it open in such a hurry that the drawer and contents crash to the ground. "Are you alright?" Mr Hobart calls out, (sounding genuinely concerned I might add). I want to scream at him, no, no I'm not alright. I've killed you twice and yet I'm still having conversations with you. But i don't, i don't say a word. i fall to my knees and search the utensils looking for a sharp knife.
obviously "the cholesterol king" is not in the habit of preparing fresh food. The sharpest knife i could find was a steak knife. My hands hover over a meat tenderizer. I hate getting messy, but lets be honest, so far this job is not going well. It's just one big bloody mess. suddenly I'm filled with a rage, a rage i haven't seen for twelve years. A rage that led me down the path i have taken. A rage that shaped my life and made me the person i am today. A rage that led me to kill my mother, my father and countless other people since.
I snatch the tenderizer up in my gloved hands. Before i knew what i was doing i was sitting across Hobart's fat, barrel chest. he was staring in to my eyes, struggling, pleading, tears rolling down his fat cheeks. "Not like this, please, please" i didn't hear him, i was too busy smashing down as hard as i could.
The first blow made a sickening "crack" as it caved his head in. i smashed it down a second time breaking his jaw, and a third shattering his cheek bone, beating the life out of him. It had gone on long enough, it was time to finish this and get home. once home i might be able to make some sense of what's happened. i bring my fist down a fourth time, blood, brains and fragments of skull splashing my couriers uniform, (so much for leaving inconspicuously). Its too late now I'm committed. Five, six times I've hammered his skull and still his eyes are locked on mine, still pleading, begging for an end.
My rage spirals out of control. What right does he have to plead and beg with those fat, blood filled, bug eyes. i want it to end, it should have ended fifteen minutes ago, but I'm still here, still smashing. i close my eyes and give in to the rage. I feel a warm sensation and i smash and smash and smash until I'm unable to even lift my arms. I can't do it, I can't smash anymore. I collapse on to Hobart's chest, covered in blood and gore. I manage to find the energy to roll off, I lie on my back facing the ceiling. I notice a dark stain around the light fitting.
"hell" how can I be so stupid, so careless. where's Hobart's blood going to go? Down, thats where, down through the ceiling. It will pool in the floor boards and gradually drip through any gaps it can find. Thats right, the light fitting. Mr Smith and his wife will be enjoying a Saturday night takeaway when there is a splash on the table. followed by another splash and another. They look up and they find a dark stain. a red stain, a blood stain. They call the police, police investigate, they then look for me. obviously by that time I'll be long gone, different clothes, different hair, no glasses, no limp. the man i am at the moment will no longer exist. he will be about as alive as Mr Hobart is at the moment. however that does not mean i want to draw unwanted attention to myself or Hobart's flat.
Out of necessity I drag the very rotund, very beaten and very dead Mr Hobart to the bath room. I haul him over the side of the bath. At least now he can drain away and I wont have to worry about poor old Mr and Mrs Smith down stairs.