Pier 34

There are certain things a man never talks about; that he takes to his grave. He comes home and kisses his beautiful wife and children and sleeps soundly with no remorse for the events of his day. For some men this means firing another man or woman who may not be able to feed their families for the lack of a paycheck he's taken away from them. For others it's the man who takes the job and never has to fire anyone but he takes the place of a worker who asked for "too much," from their parent companies and he works for less so that they work for nothing.

Then there's the third man. He may be the most merciful because no man will have to feel the guilt from what he does to them. They will never have to feel the guilt or even care about their families waiting at home with no means of support. They won't have to feel anything because their emotions and bodies will simply disappear. For those at home, they might hate the person for the cover up stories that the companies who hire this third man, tell to their families: "He never showed up for work." "He said something about a mistress." "He was on assignment for us in a very dangerous area, there was nothing we could do."

All in all it always ends in death. Death for the families who have no means of support; Death for the families who still have the life of their loved one but wish for death because they starve due to his uselessness.

The sound of a silencer makes a similar noise to a nail gun when fired; the pressure boom without the bang of gunpowder.

It was a Wednesday night in the city and John Maelor had been sent to the docks to pick up a shipment of fruit in his beat up U-Haul looking truck. He had been complaining to the American Fruit Company that his shipments were light and because of it, he wasn't getting paid as much as they could have been paying him. The truth was, he was too old for the job in their eyes. The company required 80 crates of fruit to be picked up to make bonus and he was always given 75. His paycheck was adequate for a man of sixty but the company saw no need to pay him benefits that belonged to the younger employees who had mouths to feed still.

The story wouldn't have gone sour had he kept his mouth shut but legal action was taken and American fruit had been subpoenaed to give him the same load of 80 that the majority of workers who were under the ages of 50 got. That's where I came in.

"John!"
"Hello, who is this?"
"Hello, Sorry to wake you, is this a bad time?"
"No, who is this?"
"Yes, well this is Dale from American Fruit..."
"Yes! Hello."
"Sorry to be calling you so late..."
John Chuckled and began to speak, "It's perfectly fine. My wife left for San Diego about 4 AM this morning or you'd really be in trouble." He nervously laughed again.
I laughed as well and began, "Well John, the reason I'm calling you is we just got a shipment in from The Keys of 48 crates of fresh bananas and 62 crates of Oranges. Do you think you might be able to make a quick pick up and delivery to HQ tonight?"
I heard a tussle on the other end of the phone and then he spoke, "YES! Yes... Sorry, this is just fantastic, that's 110 crates of produce, I've been waiting for this call all my life!"
I chuckled light heartily and said, "That's great! We were really at a loss. What kind of ship comes in at 3 AM? You know?"
"Well I suppose they don't have time schedules in The Keys, ya?"
I chuckled, "I guess not."
"Tell you what, I'll be down there in 20 minutes. I have to account for traffic and the trek but it shouldn't take me any longer than that."
"That's great John, I will await you at pier 34. Don't be late."
He hung up the phone.

Sitting next to the crates of bananas and oranges, I checked the clip and screwed on the silencer. I then went to stand next to the warehouse at pier 34.

The truck arrived promptly at 3 AM and I heard him step down from the rig and begin to load the first crate. He busily hobbled back and forth for hours loading the infallible pile of crates and smiling like a school boy.

The lamp flickered yellow and shown his way to his destination. From the shadows, I felt the outline of the circuit box and slightly moved the lever to flicker the light a bit before shutting it off.

"Damn it," said John aloud, "Those damn rats must have torn the wires to the lights again. Just my luck."

He put the 100th crate in the back of the truck as I walked over and stood in front of it and to the right. He walked around the left side to step up into the rig's cockpit and turned on the lights.

This was routine for me.
This was easy for me.
This was the way I'd done it many times before.
The lights came on; there was a small "THHHHUMP!" and then a breaking of glass as if somebody had thrown a stone at a warehouse window. A passerby would have thought nothing of it because the docks at night are so frequently broken into by hobos and the like that a broken window is as common place as wind knocking down a cardboard box.

I walked to the left of the truck to the dead body.
"Clean shot. Through the eyes," I said.
I sighed and began the process. First I checked the perimeter. Two more "THHHHUMP's" for drifters who might become witnesses and the perimeter was clean. The bodies were loaded into the truck along with the last 10 crates and I got into the rig and began driving.

I took out my cell phone and made a call.

"Hello? Yeah. It's done. Clean up on Pier 34."