It's the first job I have to do this month. My hands are shaking and my heart is pounding. I can feel the beats in my temples and in my chest. I'll never get used to this shitty job. I've been sitting almost two hours. Only five hundred meters from his house. Watching the people pass by. Carrying with them the weight of their normal lives, happy and unhappy. Someone looks at me distracted, I'm sure he's noticed my appearance. I'm wearing my red Chicago Bulls cap up to my eyebrows. I always liked Jordan. I also wear my glasses black, which gives me a rather disturbing look. I admit it, but I don't care.
In the tranquility of waiting and as I read "The Hunt for the Killer." I remember what it was like the first time. Ugh, it was hard, I have to say. Killing a person, when you're only 13, is hard.
The band, like a pack of wolves, puts you to the test and the test was blood. It's always blood. They gave me a two-inch dagger with a nacre grip. I still have it. The target was an asshole, a sneak. I had to teach him a lesson. But the nerves. The tension of the moment and the adrenaline flowing through the blood, did the rest. A stab wound to the ass, but the fucker twisted like a Staffordshire and the other stab went straight to the neck. I looked at him as he tried to stop the blood spurt with his hands. But it was in vain, because he soon vanished, bled to death like a pig at the hands of a murderer.
From then on, I earned the band's respect. The fucking respect. "An initiatory blood baptism, common among youth gangs," I read a few years later. Because I learned to read. It made me very angry not to know what the papers were saying. Then I became an incorrigible reader.
Since I was born, my life had been a disaster. My father's motherfucker was an alcoholic. He died two years ago, and my mother, my poor mother. She endured as much as she could and more. But he fell down the stairs, running away from my father's motherfucker's umpteenth beating. She ended up lying prostrate on a bed, fed by a troop of purulent sores. A brutal infection sent her to the afterlife. Poor old lady!
But that's all in the past. I work on my own now. How far those years are, how far away...! It's almost time. I recognized Mercedes Benz's blue license plate. I get up and I'm on my way to number thirty-eight of this very street.
I ring the bell when I get there. I am greeted by an impressive black dog, with face of very few friends. He keeps barking, wagging his tail back and forth. I insist again with the darn bell.
While I'm waiting, I remove the safety catch from the gun, pulling it out of the back of the belt. I pull out the muffler and screw it into my Parabellum. The Parabellum is the best for this kind of work.
I see him show up. Confirm target. I'm a good physiognomist. And I'm paid to be. I don't like to make mistakes. He comes up and opens the steel gate for me. Grab the dog by the necklace. He looks at me and, without saying a word, I shoot the dog in the head, leaving it out of play. In the next millisecond, our eyes meet. He knows it. He's gonna die. One shot, and then another, between the two eyebrows. He didn't have time to react. He fell flat on his face beside his dog. I closed the gate. I walked down the street, leaving behind that shocking scene.
I have to quit this job. But I don't know how to do anything but shoot. I'm a hitman.
Image source: Pixabay
