I sat in the alleyway of a busy street, just able to look out and view the mayhem. I had a few minutes yet but the time before midnight always seemed to last an eternity. Clutching the cold piece of metal in my pocket, I remembered a time when I had a wife and kids and a life where things were happy. Now, it seemed, there was nothing but the day in day out.
The pay was good from the job but it came upon every man in it like a disease. After the first one, you felt a little rush but it was always about taking on more business so I could feel the same way I did from that first hit.
An addiction always seems to work that way, you know? With Heroin addicts, it's "I just need one more hit," then somebody finds them face down in a puddle of their own vomit. Drugs are disgusting. The quality of that life is never as high as I can get. Sex is an addiction too and sex addicts are also known to rave about the "hit" but sex is also a dirty thing where you can get disease and physical withdrawal. What I do...
He came around the corner looking back and moving fast. He knew what he was doing was dangerous and that somebody would want to get this "stuff" away from him. The men he deals with peddle it to kids. He's South American in origin and this stuff is probably gold to his home country but out here on the streets a lot of other people want to get to it first. This is the way in hell, the devil eats the demons and no one ever dies, they simply evanesce.
"it's a busy street, no one's going to touch me here," he thought. "I'm too well connected, no one would dare touch a made man," he thinks. "Wow! Look at that girl, she makes my wife look old and ugly. I'll come back around to take her to my room and..."
He's pulled into an alleyway next to a busy street. The silencer spits on him with disgust. An empty bottle of whiskey is shoved in his right hand and a sticky needle into his left arm.
The bullet hole is in such a place that the man will not be discovered for hours, but people will pass by and look. People will say nothing as they pass by. A few of them might look but it will be the same as passing by a bum on the streets.
When a man dies of murder, everybody wants to know but when he does himself in, it's a whole other story. Truth is, in a city this large, who the hell cares about death without an adventure? People die every day from poverty or drug addiction. Some of them do it in the most public setting available but you ask yourself, "did I know him?" Most of the time those who didn't will say, "I'm glad it wasn't me," and walk on.
I'm a murderer. I kill people for money. My wife died from a drug overdose and my kids were killed by her next of kin for the debts she didn't pay. I killed him and have been doing hits for her family ever since. She died of her addictions. Now I get to see others die of theirs. Fear not my sheep, for the reaper brings you sweet death.
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