DANGEROUS AWFUL ME BY Clayton Mistler

Copyright 2010 by Clayton Mistler

For Jon Culver, for everyone that told me I was good at what I was doing, and for Ashton Smoot

Recommended albums to accompany reading, DANGEROUS AWFUL ME, chosen by author. List follows in no distinguishable order. There Will Be Blood by Jonny Greenwood Sawdust by Pentaphobe Alarm Will Sound Performs Aphex Twin by Alarm Will Sound

To see what is whats in front of ones own nose is a constant struggle -George Orwell

There is a noise that I can hear outside. Its silent in my home. Sitting in the chair I got out of grandmothers storage. Resting my feet no shoes on the ottoman in the center of the room. Ive been sitting in an empty bedroom in my house Ive mostly been using to store anything I dont want to stare at. Time has been passing away out the window into the darkness for hours now. My breath has been turned into a metronome. I get up, slowly, after resting dormant. Poking my head out of the window scrolling the darkness, I see a black and grey cat and a tipped over glass bottle. I walk out of the back door and illuminate the grass, holding the door open. Watching the cat walk. He looks back at me and starts to walk my way. I leave the door open as to let him in. He quickly starts to examine his surroundings, sniffing and touching things. He rubs his back against the leg of my dining room table - purring. I grab a small bowl filled with milk and lead him to the bathroom while the bathtub fills. Once he starts to lap the milk Im sitting on the edge of the bath. Just by habit Ive turned the water on to nice pleasant warmth. I pick up the dish and lay it beside me. The cat following wanting more. He was more than likely a stray no collar. He lapped the milk like he hadnt eaten in awhile. I sit there, running my fingers through the hair on his back feeling the texture hes purring again. I make my index finger and thumb into a C shape around the back of his neck, jerking towards the water. Hes

moving all of his limbs at once, once hes underneath the water. His claws sink into me, touching my bone. Bubbles are coming up in rapid succession. His mouth is wide open, his eyes are staring back at me. His ears aiming backward. I pull him up for a moment; you hear the heavy water falling off of him and his hiss. I push him back in so fast that his face collides with the bottom of the tub, leaving a nice echoing thud when he hits it. I turn his face around with both of my hands now, toward myself. I stare at his eyes. He is dying. Slowly. Ive always heard that drowning is one of the most horrific deaths. His sporadic movements go slower now. His gaze is falling. His body goes limp. His claws are still lodged into my hands. Pulling them out, pockets of blood pour into the bathtub mixing in with it. The steam is still coming off the tub. Ill burry him in the back yard in the morning. Your life is intolerable. Youre miserable. You cant get out of bed in the morning. Life is something that youd call hell. You look up symptoms of your favorite mental illness. Just put a label on it. Just to keep your head above water. You drink constantly, and then you either start doing drugs or you start popping pills. You arent the only one. Youre one in a million. America is a song and depression is its chorus. I like driving. I cant stand to see the same things for more than a few days. I drive for four

hours and stop at a cheap hotel.

I remember being fourteen. Watching television, eating junk food, long into the night. Watching mostly infomercials at this point. I would watch videotapes mom had rented for me and once finished almost always still be awake. Every weekend usually, if I wasnt staying at grandmas house. Mom usually wasnt home until I woke up. I usually went to sleep around five and woke up a little after noon, and shed be in various places around the house, the sofa, her bed, the floor, or in the bathroom. Always in different forms of undress her dress falling off, or underwear half way down her legs. Her hair looked like a Christmas tree made of cobwebs. She usually wouldnt wake up until either I woke her up or her alarm clock for work clicked on. She was a hotel maid and mostly worked nights or evenings. I remember one specific evening when the tapes were over and it was raining. I had just finished a particular scary movie. I cant remember the title. I wasnt really afraid, just worried. I wanted to hear a familiar voice. I called my mother. Hi, pumpkin Did you have a bad dream, sweetie? I hear a mans voice through the phone. Who in the fuck are you talking to? a group of laughs follow. No, I just wanted to know when you were coming home

Oh, honey I dont know right now the mans voice says take off your clothes and mumbles something violently. Who is that? Oh, thats just some of mommys friends Do I know him? No, you two have never met. Listen mommy has to go now Mom when are you coming home? theres obviously a group of men talking in the background. It doesnt sound like a party because there isnt any music. A man asks who the fuck is she talking to, another says he ready and a bunch of shouts follow. Mommy has to go. I promise if you go to sleep now Ill be home when you wake up Promise? Promise, goodbye honey Goodnight, mom Night, I love you I love you too

This town bores me, she says looking out the window of my car. She stares up at the stars and says it as if its supposed to mean something to me. Her blonde clean hair movingly playfully with the wind, she moves her hand to follow the wind, she moves her hand back inside the car when the stop sign approaches. What am I suppose to say to that exactly? Im so fucking mad I dont say anything. This town bores her? It annoys the fuck out of me to hear her say that. She then says that shes tired and wants to go home. We havent gone to the movies like we said we were. I forget what were supposed to see, probably something she wanted to see. Dinner was nice enough I suppose. She doesnt have any taste at all; as long as the place served alcohol, she was fine. No class. She really is fucking annoying but shes pretty enough to not make me listen to her most of the time. I start to drive her home because I know that she wants to fuck me. We get to her house and she starts to kiss me and I shut the front door behind me. Her house is dirty. Its a mess really. Empty beer cans and empty potato chip bags. The television had been left on since when she probably left with me. Its blaring too; almost enough to make your train of thought go away. She grabs me by the balls quite literally and leads me to her bedroom. Still kissing me and grabbing the back of my neck she works me through my pants getting me nice and stiff. I start to undress her and reach up her black dress that she always

wears on first dates and work her with my fingers to get her wet. I can hear her soft little moans. She grabs my hand and pulls it towards her mouth and licks herself off of my fingers. I tell her to wait one second. Shes asks why? I say, just hold on, Ill be right back. I walk to my car and grab the Colt M1911with a silencer and walk erect back to Erikas room. Its night. I tried to look for anyone while I was outside. To see if anyone saw me. I was too excited to check thoroughly. I think about checking again, a second time. No, no I shouldnt I thought. I hide the gun mostly underneath my jacket that I had on. I think my grandmother gave it to me for Christmas one year. Her room smelled like cigarettes and body odor. Mostly dirty clothes on the floor and food crumbs. The only light coming in was from the street light through her cheap venetian blinds stopping right on her naked skin. I study her for a second. Look at her curves. She notices me but, just barely. Erik? She asks. Confused little Tabitha. You are a poor, sweet child. In the dark I put the gun up to her chin and I know she can feel the cold of it because she jerks when I touch her and I pull myself out of my pants. The gun was already cocked and loaded, because I had made sure to do so before I even picked her up, hours before. I knew that if she heard it in the dark now, that shed be too scared to let me shoot her. I have to shoot her. I have to. In every variable of this situation Im going to shoot her. Its not a matter of

will, or will not. There is no question at all. A mans lust is nothing to question. Resting my gun. Firmly on the bottom of her chin I shoot her and jerk off at the same time, climaxing at the exact moment I start to hear pieces of her head start to fall from the walls. Theres a brief, little, high pitched, pft noise when I shoot her. The same one youve heard a million times. I had my eyes closed when she died. I normally like to watch. This time I was just too overjoyed. Her head mostly looks like a carved out watermelon right now. I clean myself off rubbing it in her sheets. Her hair is scattered all over her room now. And thats just what little I can see from the scarce light. I take off my jacket because its covered in blood and put it in one of her trash bags along with all of my other clothes and put them in the trunk of my car. I change in the bathroom into a clean set of clothes. I think of my jacket. How terrible it is that Im going to burn it later. Oh, grandma would be so upset if she knew what I was going to do with it. Maybe I can keep it. No, dont be foolish. Burn it. Burn it. Burn it. You know you should. Its only right. Dont fuck up a brilliant routine because you get a little sappy about your grandmother you stupid fuck. God, I cant believe I even thought, for a second, about not burning that fucking jacket. There was nothing special about it. It was a forest green zip up jacket, nothing special. It was a casual thing to wear. I liked it though. It fit nicely. I

think I looked really good in it. But, thats ok. You can always get a new jacket. I cant say why I kill people. I dont know. Its impulsive, some people buy purses or shoes. I just kill people. I dont like people. I like animals though. Theyre perfect; they are as people should be. The first and greatest characteristic of the animal is the inability to reason. Theyre brilliant in that way. Also, human emotion is just so, I dont know, gross. We let it effect too much of our lives, for some its their entire lives. How much art or music, or literature, is actually good? Sure, you like some things, you may like a lot of things, and you dont like every single book ever written do you? No, you dont. How many good records can you even name? Its all shit is the truth. And so is emotion. I have no compassion for my fellow man. We kill, rape, and shit all in the same day. Im embarrassed to be considered a man. What is so great about people? We thought of genocide, the atomic bomb, and television, and thats just this century. Fuck. You should look up all the torture devices and procedures some of your ancestors thought up. Those guys knew how to kill people. Long, and drawn out. The irony of such is that most of the inventors of their torture devices, died by them. My favorite being the brass bull, which doesnt sound that bad at first, kings would have the slaves or whoever build a big, hollow, bull made of brass. Usually there would be

door on the side where our victim would jump in. After your friend gets comfortable inside, you start a brush fire under the bulls stomach, letting the metal get white hot. The main idea was to do this in front of a crowd where the king and anyone who cared enough to be there, to hear the poor fuckers screams. This thing liquefied them.

Its a tired old tale. Im empty. A cold, hollow, vessel of destruction, I am death. I am now at least, not like that time in the dark field. Not like the time I killed Tabitha. Im just a man. Im just an animal. I suppose Im making excuses. Do you ever stare at people and wonder which ones are murderers? I do. When Im driving I look into the cars that pass me by and for that second Im apart of their lives. That exact moment we make eye contact, I peer into their souls and I wonder if theyre killers. Sometimes when I see people sitting down, not doing anything at all. Maybe theyre waiting for the bus, sitting at their table in a caf somewhere reading the paper with their legs crossed. I just look at their argyle socks and I can picture them holding a gun to someones temple, pulling the trigger, and then cutting up their victim and hiding them away, piece-by-piece. Im not going to explain my self here. I dont want to. I just want to talk about myself. I never get the chance to. Im not sure if this is literally talking but itll have to do.

I hope the world ends and Im the only one left here. Dont you ever wish people would just shut the fuck up? Id call this a diary, but thats just too lame of a word. Even the word lame is too lame of a word. Why did I kill that girl? She didnt hurt me. She didnt want to hurt me. As far as I know she didnt want to hurt anyone.

Molly. When I look at her Im drunk. I dont mean Im always drunk when I look at her I mean when I look at her it makes me drunk, makes me high. Getting close to her is like falling off the edge of a building and watching the sidewalk get closer and closer to your face faster than anything youve ever seen. If I could sum up Molly, I would say she is the feeling of the other persons lips when they smile while youre kissing them. If I loved anyone it would be her. When I talk to her Im suddenly out of things to talk about. When I see her smile I put up blinders and nothing else in the world exists. My heart wraps itself in a wool blanket and smiles. When I run my fingers through her hair I feel the grace and texture of her. Her skin is welcome and nurturing. I would kiss her and instantly feel like I was home even if I was halfway across the globe. Sometimes when I close my eyes and lay back in bed on a lonely night I can imagine feeling the back of her neck and pulling it closer to me and kissing her. I listen to myself breath and I can feel her fingers running through my hair. I can lie on my side and hear her say, Hold me tight When its too warm outside I remember those hot walks wed take. I can remember walking her to the corner and kissing her goodbye. I can remember holding her hand and suddenly not caring about anything anymore like I would. I remember waking

up before her and trying to get out of bed as quietly as possible to not wake her up. I remember getting myself to drink enough to finally have the courage to talk to her. Oh, Molly. You were my everything.

I dont really have a method to killing people. I have a few ways that I like killing people though. Stabbing is great. I feel a kinship to my ancestors when I stab someone with a blade just like they may have. I sometimes feel as if I was born in the wrong century. Some odd hundred years ago killing wasnt that big of a deal. At least it isnt written down as such. I remember reading about Mongols stabbing pregnant women in the stomach and building pyramids of human heads. Sometimes I feel lonely. Like Im the only one. I know thats not true, but its not like killers have weekly meetings. Which would absolutely make for an excellent television show. An envelope scoots underneath my stall. Im in a bathroom taking a shit while thinking about the previous kill. I just look at it. All of a sudden I was living in a terrible mystery novel. I finish my business and pick up the envelope. Inside is a blank piece of paper that just has the words, I know what you are on it. It had come from a printer. No handwriting on it. The loud thud of the heavy metal door to the rest stop bathroom and the wind is all you hear. Im storming outside and the thing that gave me this letter is gone. How smart was he? Did he expect me to be as angry as I am? Why would he want to make me angry? Because he wants me dead?

He wants me to make a mistake; something where he can catch me in my flaw. Im saying he but I have no idea what this thing is. Maybe hes trying to comfort me. Telling me Im not alone. Its cute timing that I received this letter at the exact time I was dwelling on my loneliness.

And then I wake up. And the poor girls brains arent dripping off the walls anymore. I pick up the remote control to the television. The hotel television takes a moment to warm up. On the set is a man talking about the virtues of god. Oh god. I feel kind of funny saying his name out loud. Has anyone had any real positive insight into the concept of god, that wasnt a fucking moron? I dont believe so. I sometimes hope there is a god. It would make things a little easier; it would make me feel a little more comfortable. Knowing there actually is some grand scheme would be nice. I would like to think there is a giant huge point to all of this. Its kind of a bit easier to assume the world was built and created on a fluke. The entire universe built out of thin air and luck. You dont really have to think about it after that. Because the truth is, theres no way well never know. I think thats why we just assume that god is dead, because not knowing something is a bit scary. Its terrifying to not know whats lying in the dark. I quickly change the channel, but the fact I even think I like something sometimes kills me. Next, we have a program about chimpanzees. Well rather its about people owning them. Apparently once the chimps reach puberty they become unpredictable and start killing people. Im saying this without doing any research but there are very few things people can buy that eventually turn wildly unpredictable and

maddeningly violent at everyone and everything. But its true, they brought out this poor woman in her forties or fifties explaining how she jumped on the back of her chimp and stabbed in the back with a pair of scissors after it had just ripped her friends face off. And after police arrived and then the ambulance arrived and the coroner took her dead friend away and whoever took her dead chimp away, the local news asked her, Do you think chimps should be pets? She said, Yes. Rational thinking people dont fucking do that. This obvious empty nester needs to be evaluated about their mental health. I hate television. I really cant take it.

Walking through this empty hallway trying to find the light switch. Im too hungover to really watch what Im doing. I just swing my arm out wildly. Erik Molly cries out. What? She lets out a whining moan with her eyes squeezed shut. What are you doing? She always needed me lying with her. I had only gotten up for a moment and she needed me back. Im just going to the bathroom. Are you hungover too? She just moans again. Im assuming thats a yes. I relieve myself in the toilet for a surprising amount of time and then turn around to the sink. I reach behind the valves where I keep the aspirin. I shake out about five and swallow them with a handful of water. I make to the doorway and I immediately walk back to the toilet and my own piss fumes waft into my face and I throw up the aspirin I just swallowed. Then, the dry heaves start. And then my ulcer flares up and Im stuck in front of the toilet for the next five minutes. I stop long enough to hear Molly walking towards the bathroom. Erik Hold onIm almost done. My right cheek is on the rim of the toilet and my left hand holding down the lever.

Erik, I have to pee. I get up and leave the bathroom. We were at a party together the night before. I can barley remember what happened. I do remember carrying her into the bedroom but Im sure thats a bit selective memory. Nonetheless it happened. She pees with the door open which is something she never does and thats how I know shes really hungover and barely awake. I did have to carry her into bed. She probably wont even remember this. Suddenly I remember a moment from the night before of her talking to me. She held me and told me that some other girls told her to be careful around me. Why, I asked. She went on to tell me that I sometimes fuck girls over. And when she said that I felt ok. She knew this thing about me. She knew that I was awful, or chose to ignore it, but I didnt care. It felt like she just accepted me. Which is a hard thing to do. I think sometimes that most people who think they want to be loved just long to be understood. This meant she understood me. She saw my flaws for what they were and accepted me and loved me anyway, which honestly what everyone wants. Isnt it? We all want to be loved. Thats the real reason we get up in the morning. Not to go to work. Not to put food on the table. You do what you do to be loved.

You seek a soul mate to love you. You have children because theyll love you. You make people laugh so that theyll love you. You tell stories so that people will love you. You act cool as fuck so people will love you. I just didnt know that that was what I wanted. Molly gets out of the bathroom and holds me and lays her head on my chest. Shes warm. I love you Lets not get this drunk ever again ok? Agreed Can I tell you something, Molly? She lifts her up. Yes dear? Her eyes are barley open. I kill people for a living Hm? Shes too tired to notice. I take the pillow from underneath my head and jump on top of her. Her eyes open up but shes in too much in shock to stop me. I take the pillow press it as hard as I can against her face. Her muffles guide my hand to the top left drawer of my dresser. Her hands are pushing my chin up and shes basically hit survival mode and she doesnt know what shes doing, just throwing her arms wildly around. I put the gun to the pillow and the gunshot sounds quite a bit muffled and a I just sit and stare at the bloody hole in the pillow.

The red slowly pours over and starts dripping on to my legs.

Theres a knock on the door. The religious asshole is still yelling out of the television. Hold on! Humphrey Bogart from Casablanca is at my door. Not literally but, hes basically wearing the same get up. I cant see his face though. He isnt saying anything. The cold is pouring in and Im not ready for this. Im not wearing socks. He moves in to the room and pushes a needle into my arm just like your shots you got when you were a kid.

Im holding my gut while it spills into my hands while the other frequency can only taste the bitter kind of paint. Wait, what the fuck? He was even wearing the same fucking hat as Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. Holy fucking shit. Oh god. Please help me. Youre not a good man I get on my knees and pray. Please god, Im trying. Im trying really hard to be better! It doesnt matter. Great. Now the hollow marks and tapestry that makes up human thought will only be remembered through the silly thoughts of a dumb autographed stitch of shit. Dont think while your red ways fall victim to a lot of other demons and then suddenly things wont get so archaic in the veins. Dont listen to the punches and how they hang their holds on nooses of calm fingertips. Just relax Erik. Just relax. Take the gun Erik. Take it. Shoot. Now hes dead.

Ive seen Humphrey Bogart die now. Do you ever feel like your sinking into yourself? No? Well, fuck we have nothing to talk about then, do we? Theres a knock at the door and a man in a fedora and big coat are at the door. I know what you are, Erik. Youre a killer. He holds my hand and takes off his hat. Now we both know that youre not the man youd like to be. No. Im not Lets try something different for a little bit. Ok

Theres a knock on the door. The religious asshole is still yelling out of the television. One minute! I push the covers off of myself. I open the door and the cold bites me in the face. I forgot how cold it is outside. I wasnt wearing socks. My bare feet curl and Im shivering in about two seconds. Theres a folder on the ground. I pick it up and theres a note in it for me. Im pretty scared of it, or worse, what it might say. I just put it on the dresser and think about opening it. But I dont. Instead I put on my clothes and walk to the front desk of the hotel. The front desk is empty. I stand around for a moment. I stare at what looks like a genuine old-fashioned grandfather clock. Can I help you sir? I turn around to see a fifty-year-old woman at the front desk as if she was there all along. I walk a few steps towards the desk. Shes clearly spent too much time on her hair. Its a fake red and thin and a little too tall for her short, stout, frame. Yes, uh. Do you know of a place near by to get cigarettes? She thinks about for a moment. She smacks her lips and looks out the window. Its snowing outside, very lightly. The ground is still warm so its the not that dangerous to drive. But, that air is fucking freezing.

Well, I think you drive up the road about four or five miles north, about this hour. You sure you want to drive in this weather though? Shouldnt be that big of a deal. I take her advice and head up the road four or five miles. I find the only open gas station at this hour and walk in to the automated electric chime. There wasnt anyone at the counter. I go to the coffee station and pour myself some. When I go back to the counter there isnt anyone there still. Hello? Theres a blinking florescent light behind the counter in the room where an office could be. I reach over the counter to steal the cigarettes and when my fingers are just far enough and at the exact moment they touch the cellophane package of the cigarettes I see a twitching foot in the office of the only open gas station in this snowy place. Its a dead foot.

The crunches of dry corn stalks are the only thing you can hear when youre driving through a farmers field in the winter. I drive out here because I can drive with the lights off, slowly and quietly. No one will ever know that Im out here or what Im doing. I stop at where I assume is the middle of the entire thing and stop the car. I press the button that opens up the trunk and walk calmly back to the now open trunk. Inside is Mr. Culver and a shovel. He was the man in the pale grey suit. Black hair. Old. And he was the man with the brown suitcase who was going to use the payphone on the corner of Benton and Folger at around 3:30 pm on June 13th. He wasnt expecting to be killed. Otherwise he would have noticed a man on the bench with a perfect view of the payphone pretending to read the newspaper. It was one of the first times it was a hired killing. The phone call ends and I fold up my paper and start following Mr. Culver back to his car. He drives a black sedan, kind of old, but hes kept it in good shape. The next day I find his car first and I wait in the back seat of his car. Thats really the most interesting time for me. I wasnt as excited as I thought Id be. Just waiting. The same way youd wait for a bus or a phone call. I thought about the weather. What Molly would be fixing for dinner that night. And then the crack of the door opening and he jumped in his car and started driving home.

I place my gun on the back of his head. And you can feel his fear in your bones. Calm down. Hes breathing so fast. The sweat almost immediately starts squirting from his pores. He smells like whiskey. Start driving. Where? Ill tell you. Just keep calm. Dont talk. And this will be painless for the both of us. Mr. Culver than drives at a very calm pace to an alley between two big brick warehouses. I stretch a plastic grocery bag over his face and this is where he loses it. He starts squirming and jutting around. He doesnt think to poke a hole in the mouth so he can breathe because hes too scared. He cant stop thinking about the fact that he is going to die. So he just chooses to freak out and embarrass himself by moving around like a shitty dance partner. I cant blame him though. Dying is probably pretty terrifying. Eventually his seizures stop and I wrap him up in some giant trash bags and put him in the trunk. I think thats where we are now. Hole digging is very Zen for me. My mind stops worrying and fidgeting. All I focus on is the hole and its depth. I like digging holes. It gets about four feet deep and an awful cry comes from the trunk Mr. Culvers car. I stare at it for a moment because I really dont want him to still be alive so I try and

focus and make sure that hes actually dead and it was just my imagination. And then he cries again. Goddamn it The shovel sticks straight up when I throw it down. I rip open up the bag and hes barely alive. His eyes are rolled back and I do what I thought what was best. I prop him up on his knees facing the hole I dug for him. I take the shovel and hold it like a spear and jut it right where I think the spinal cord starts on the back of his neck. He falls down and it sounds like a pft youve heard a million times before. Its too dark to see Mr. Culver at the bottom of this hole but I imagine him in the fetal position.

The lobby of the funeral home is pretty dim. A bunch of people genuinely sad or just pretending to know my dad, circle me like a bunch of wagons, or a bunch of lions taking down their prey; an elephant in the room. You drove your father to this. Thats what theyd like to say but they cant. Too in love with their own sadness, and the attention theyre getting for it. Its almost like they dont even want to wipe their own tears away. How else will anyone know how sad they are? Closed casket. I think of all the horrible things his face must look like. He placed a twelve-gauge shotgun underneath his chin and let out a blast that the neighbors could hear. They called the cops. This all happened while I was in school and mom was at work. I guess that was nice of him. A last little bit of courtesy before killing yourself seems a bit ironic right now. Are you alright? Yeah, Im fine. My uncle from my mothers side puts his hand on my shoulder. I think he thinks this is as stupid as much as I do. Maybe Im projecting my own thoughts into him. Maybe hes a sick fuck too. He is the only one besides me whose here that isnt being an embarrassing cry baby. You know? I think I might have a bb gun in my truck. Why do you have a bb gun in truck? Does it matter?

I guess not. We go behind the funeral home and shoot cans, rocks, and bottles while the others cry. We have fun and they ball their eyes out. At least we do until my mom catches us. What the fuck are you doing!? What? My moms make up has made perfect little lines down the front of her face. She trembles and scolds and I feel terrible. Shes upset because Im not. Now Im sad. Ill later find out that she was so upset because she thought I was shooting birds and that because I was shooting birds I must think very lightly of death. What scared me most though is that I wanted to. I didnt because my uncle was standing right there and I knew hed have a problem with it. But, I wanted to shoot the birds, and somehow I thought my mom knew that. Mom, Im sorry! I drop the bb gun and run to her. My uncle just stands there and watches my mother kneel down and pick me up. I can feel her staring at him and I can feel him staring right back. Brother and sister simultaneously saying fuck you simultaneously. Both of them accusing one another of the same crime; both of them guilty. I try and comfort her as much as I can. I wasnt that damaged back then. I wasnt trying to kill anything back then. I was still capable of some

natural human emotions. Not to say that I wasnt a little fucked from the beginning but, hey who isnt? I wasnt that close with my dad anyway. He wasnt that close with anyone. I knew very little about him. I know he fought in Vietnam. Knowing that, also understands why he liked to be left alone. He didnt say much. Im sure his demons finally just caught up with him. I cant imagine how terrible Vietnam was. Must have been awful fighting day and night. War is hell they say. War ends though. And then you have to go back to real life. That was hard for him. He was shot in the leg and barley survived. Mom was his nurse. They obviously grew close, moved back and had me. I think she understood him. I wonder if she was surprised when they told her how they found him. A body with what looked like a dead bloody tree instead of a head. Im only using my imagination of course. Maybe I should have spent some more time with him.

Inhaling that first puff after you really want it always feels so good. It feels so good. Tobacco is a great high. I lay my head down and the nicotine does its job and Im tired again. I keep smoking with my eyes closed and the back of my head is glued to this pillow.

Suddenly, Im a kid again. A few years after dad had died. After Dad died Mom became the obligatory wreck. She developed a drug habit and lost her job because of that and then she thought to herself, Hey, wouldnt it be swell if I became a whore? I know I have a son but I think Id like to have sex with men for money. Yup, thats what Im going to do! So of course Im sitting Indian style in front of the television on the floor while Mom has her friends over. With every unwanted noise I hear, turning up the volume a click more each time; television telling me how to be an adult because Mom was too busy getting stuffed. I didnt have any friends when I was a kid either. Understandably. Ive always been a bit odd. I was always reading books and just sitting on the swings when all of the other boys were playing football. I was bullied for that. I did have a girlfriend though. We would kiss behind the shed at her house. I remember stealing jewelry from my Mom and giving it to her. Heres the fun part though. She broke up with me for my bully. This fucking asshole, Chris Patrick. Chris was literally everything I wasnt. He was very cool, really good at baseball, very attractive, and he picked on me. Because he was an asshole. I remember once when I got in a fight with him, he punched me in the face and then I went to my Dad. Dad said, Well punch him back.

I didnt though, it felt really obvious to say at the time but, I didnt even think to hit him back. Later in life, Chris grows up to become a father at sixteen and is dealing pot to junior high kids. He also dropped out. I poisoned his liquor. I watched him thrive on the ground. He stared at me while he died. His son was in the crib next to me. I just walked in and asked to make him a drink. His son was asleep and his girlfriend was at work at the gas station. If I think really hard I can remember repressed memories of my mothers failed attempts to find me another father. At the time I thought they were replacement dads but, in retrospect things seem a bit different. The memory in question is that on one night in the summer. I was up a little later than I should have been and I heard Mom and Dale just getting in. Clearly drunk. There was an overused amount of steps, giggles, and f-words. Mom was hanging off of Dale, her left arm around his neck with a plastic pint of vodka in her left hand and a half empty mountain dew can in her right. I asked where she had been. Dale told me to shut up. Mom laughed but still told Dale not to speak to her son that way. Dale acted as if he was only joking but I still took it the worst way. Mom lifted the

mountain dew can to Dales mouth and told him to calm down and have another drink. Mom, whered you guys go? Why are you home so late? Kid! Jesus! Calm the fuck down, you little faggot Mom slapped Dale once; hard enough to make him laugh but not teach him anything. She started laughing too once he did. Seeing her like that, without any self respect, seeing her not caring about me, but worse, seeing her not care about herself. She brought this piece of shit home with her? This low-life drunk? Later on, Ill kill Dale by putting too many flammable ingredients in his batch of whatever and his meth lab will explode, killing him and his four cats. I couldnt not feel sorry for her and myself. Aw little faggot gonna cry now!? He starts laughing and Mom cant even listen at this moment. Her feet have started to get out from underneath her. Look what you did to her! She couldnt handle having a little faggot like you for her son! Or should I say daughter!? He laughs so hard he shuts his eyes tight, and he cant see me run at him and punch him in the face. It wasnt that it was a hard punch, it was the fact all of his motor skills had withered away for the last six days hed been awake.

I storm out the door and start walking. Just to calm down. Its dark and late, you can hear the wind through the trees its so quiet. Everything is pleasant for the next few minutes. I count my breaths and the anger is leaving me by way of footsteps. BARK! BARK! BARK! I can see a dogs little shiny eyes. Hes a big labrador retriever. Its cold enough to see his breath. His barking keeps interrupting each thought I have. SHUT! THE FUCK! UP! But, he doesnt stop. Like I didnt even say anything. I step off the street and into the mud around his cage, and now Im even more upset I wrap my fingers around the wall of chain link house and shake it and scream at him once more. Still, nothing. He just keeps going. I warn him. I warn him several times. Eventually I had to grab a rock and beat his mouth in with it. Mom never asked why I had blood on my pajamas.

I was clicking up the volume until I couldnt anymore and the noises from the other room could still be heard. These werent happy noises this time. Something had happened. The moment I realized something was wrong I turned the volume knob all the way in the opposite direction and I cant stop staring at the door. I suddenly start listening with my eyes. The wooden door has a frame of light with little black flickers in random order all around it. My gaze is strong. I wait to hear a different noise to let me know what was going on. I hear my Mom actually say something, I cant remember what, and that was my cue to get up and make my way for the door. When I say make my way I mean I slowly tip toe my way holding my arm outward, reaching for the brass handle. I can see my reflection. I had a bowl cut back then. The door bursts open and a man in a suit jacket and a fedora is choking my mother to death. He pushed her through the door and eventually on to the floor. He still somehow has his hat on. I cant really make out his face. It doesnt matter I suppose. Mom starts gargling and spitting. I cant stop staring. Im not crying. Its not that I dont feel anything by seeing her strangled on the floor; looking back Id say it was shock. Thats the only real explanation. Id never really seen actual violence in person before. Sure Id seen things on television and Id been

beaten up and seen fights at school, but this was much more vicious. This was carnal. This was man at his worst. This was devolution. Reverting back to our cave men brethren. This man was everything that was wrong with humanity. She was everything that was good and I was everything in between. He didnt even notice that I had dashed into the kitchen and when I was standing behind him he didnt notice either. I stood back there for a good minute, maybe a minute and a half. Thats when it really sunk in, like an old rusty blade and I can feel every molecule of broken steel. My mother was going to die. I grabbed the knife to not save her, but to avenge her. Which was now inevitability. She just gave up. She knew it too. She must have realized it as soon as I did. She hadnt breathed her last breath, but she knew she was going to. She saved her last bit of life to look at me. She didnt say anything because she was afraid of the man noticing and then turning around to kill me. She gave up her life for mine. He grunts and squeezed the last little bit of her out from her throat. And then he got up from the floor. I watched him raise up and I stab him in the back of his calf. He falls up top of my mother the knife still two inches deep. Oh, fuck! I reach for the knife and pull it out. The man rolls off of Mom and looks back at me and the only

reason I can think of that he would let me jump on him is shock. Thats the only real explanation. I sit on his chest and stab him in the eye. Now I can see hes a man in his late fifties. He has a grey scruff and balding, liver spots too.

The religious asshole is still yelling out of the television. I dont feel very well. I think of taking a bath but I feel so terrible I just lay there and build up the energy. I do build up the energy though. It felt like an hour before I did. I sit on the toilet and watch the tub fill up and slowly take off my clothes. Im assuming the trip to the gas station made me sick somehow. Oh well, its nothing I cant sleep off. I slowly drop myself in and I cant help but think of Molly. Sometimes we would take bathes together. Sex with her was always really good too. Im not a sexual person by any stretch of the imagination. Sex always just made things different, and to me it definitely wasnt worth the effort. I enjoyed sex with her though. It wasnt a simple pleasure, it was a bonding experience we both shared. I cant think about that for very long though without getting heartbroken. Thats enough. I lift my head. Bogart is standing in the doorway exhaling the smoke from the cigarettes I bought. Enough of what? Quit thinking about her. Youre only going to get worse if you do that. Its easier said than done. I dont care how hard it is! Some dumb broad is nothing to be crying about. Now get your clothes on, youve got a job to do. Or did you forget?

Suddenly the memory of Bogart telling me what to do slips in to my head like a rush of water into a bowl. Yes. Fuck. I forgot. Well, all that I had for you was reconnaissance today. Christopher Black. Senator. Liar. Cheat. Thief. Politics is truly a thiefs game. Anyone who tells you otherwise is either too stupid to know, or an evil, evil, person. I suppose I cant speak much on morals though. I accept money to take other peoples lives. Most of the time I dont know who these people are. They could be very good people. I try not to think about it too much. Its easier not to think about your faults and things youve done wrong. Its not right, but Ive got a little too much to worry about than whether or not what I do is right or wrong. I dry off and put my dirty clothes back on. I hate that. I turn the television off that I had left on and get to drive to where Black lives. I drive through the night.

Springfield, POP. 5,325 You can watch the sun creep over the horizon in little farm towns like this one. People wake up earlier around shit holes like this for some reason so I decide to stop at a hole in the wall restaurant where I assume they serve breakfast. The parking lot is gravel and the name of the place is written in window chalk. This is fucking great. The door has duct tape all around the edges to prevent a draft and the floor has shitty multicolored carpet. You seat yourself and wait for the pregnant waitress to ask you what you want. She chews her gum loudly and with her mouth open. Such an awful sound that obviously accompanies her whiney voice. Is everything awful or am I just think everything is? Everything truly annoys me to my core. Even things I like I can only enjoy in moderation. I suppose thats true for everyone. I just get upset very easily. The only real emotion I know for certain is this feeling now. Im either mad or Im indifferent to most things. The coffee tastes like coffee flavored shit. I wasnt expecting much though. Someone walks out of the kitchen, I assume an employee but I say someone because this restaurant didnt have any particular uniforms or attire for its employees. So she was just wearing a blue t-shirt. She was grossly fat. She had those odd dimples located everywhere. Her face made you wonder what she looked like underneath that fat mask.

Boys, not men, usually wore her haircut. Greasy, black, dandruff ridden locks that sat on top of her skull. A goldilocks woman prances her way onto the showroom floor and the ugly beasts smother her with questions about her and her dumb day and what she could think about anything and everything. Im more disgusted by this curly headed, clearly fake blonde, stupid little girl. At least these ogres of women had the decency to know what they really looked like. This horrible mess of fake tan and porcelain veneers was riddled to her spine with layers of contrived thoughts and personality. Saying she even had a personality might be giving her too much credit. Id kill her if I had the chance. The food is placed down on my table. The waitress doesnt even look at me. She just lays it down without lifting her gaze from her majestys vapid life. This is ridiculous. I cant let this go on. This has to be put to a stop. Drinking coffee was stupid anyway. I finally buy some attention from my waitress when I walk to the cash register. When I ask her what the princesss name was she was surprised, and then relieved to find out I was from out of town. Her name is Whitney. Im looking forward to destroying her.

I had found out that Whitney took night classes at the local community college. So, naturally I signed up. She always walked in ten minutes late with a cup of sugar chocolate flavored coffee. She now sits by me. Shes grown a charm to me. Its all an act unfortunately. Im merely playing the role of the interesting, charming, man. I wonder how much she is playing the role of Whitney? The class is introduction into literature. Of course I let her copy my notes, its what the right man would do. I hate to sound pretentious but I already know most of this shit. I suppose it makes it easier for the job. The professor keeps talking and I keep making silent jokes to Whitney. She smiles a lot. Shes hiding the real her. The real her is empty. Much like me she has learned to act like someone in order to fit in. Though I gave up fitting in a long time ago. Her life is just a movie about her and shes the lead actress. I hate people like that. I hate being cast as something I never signed up for. Most people do. I wonder how many people secretly despise her? Maybe a few. Maybe everyone. Either or, she needs to be put down. The human race has cancer and Im the one here to eradicate the sickness. I too am a part of it. People like Whitney are part of it but at least I know I am. At least I know the difference between myself and the rest of the world. Not that the human race necessarily deserves to be saved. I just believe in the human race. I think we need a nudge in the right direction. Maybe Im a

hopeless romantic. All I know is that a world without this horrible blonde slut is a little bit better when shes gone.

This is a party? It looks more like an ego measuring contest. Ive found a chair and Im not moving. This beer tastes awful. I dont like to be drunk. I dont feel like Im in control anymore after a few drinks. Ill sip this one beer all night though so no one will annoy me about not drinking. People get really self-conscious when someone makes a personal decision not to drink. Why dont you want to drink? Is drinking bad? It makes them think about why they actually drink. What demons are they putting at bay? What thoughts are they choking? Some people dont like looking inwards that far. They are very afraid of themselves. Whitney sees me in the corner and she thinks Im bored. Which makes her think that I think shes boring, so now she has to walk to me and pat me with her elbow and ask whats wrong and why and a list of stupid questions. Everything she does is to make herself feel better. After she asks me if Im really fine I tell her I have to go to the bathroom because if she would have kept talking for another second I would have killed her right there. The bathroom is nice and quiet. I turn on the faucet and take a drink of water. What are you doing Erik? I see Bogart in the mirror. Hes smoking a cigarette. What are you talking about?

She isnt a part of the mission. Eliminating her is a waste of time. You cant compromise the mission. Im just doing this for myself. A personal project. You dont do things for yourself! You dont have personal projects! Hes very angry. Hes raising his finger and pointing it at me very rigidly. It wont affect the mission. Itll be fine. And then he vanishes without saying anything. Which is it a bit unnerving. Whitney is waiting for me outside of the bathroom. I tell her Im leaving. I tell her I have work in the morning. She hugs me and I walk onto the street. I met Molly at a party like this one. She was wearing a red button up shirt, jeans, with her dorky glasses she wore at the time. She didnt pay much attention to me at the time. I tried talking to her that night but I was very nervous and couldnt think of much to say. Later Id go to the other parties Id hear shed be at and wed talk again then. Then later shed actually fall in love with me.

The next day I gather my things in my hotel room. I take inventory. Ruger M77 bolt action rifle. Colt M1911 Pistol with silencer. .45 rounds .308 rounds. Sand bag. Binoculars. Switchblade. I clean my guns and count the ammunition. I can be very prcised when I need to be. Christopher Black is up for re-election. He is currently on a speech campaign going from town to town. On Saturday afternoon hell be behind a podium telling his district why hes the best man for the job. Why hes just like them. And then Ill shoot him. I hide everything underneath the bed.

Whitney has invited me for a drive along with several other idiot friends of hers. Its a midnight in the middle of the fall. I dont know why I agreed to this. This is the opposite of anything that I would find fun. I imagine well ride around the dirt and gravel roads narrowly avoiding a car crash at every turn. The dust rises up behind the car like a trail of breadcrumbs back to safety. Her friends are Ethan, and Amanda. Ethan was likely picked on by his father as a child and now as a sever inferiority complex. He compensates his psychological lack of manhood in making jokes at everyone in the cars expense. On any random day you can find him in the middle of a roid rage fit or jerking off to tranny porn. Amanda is clinging on to Whitney for dear life. Shes addicted to attention the same way Whitney is. But the only way she knows how to get it is live in her shadow, as afraid of her as she might be; its still worth it to her though. Shell probably graduate unlike Whitney and get a good job and live a pretty fulfilling life after all of this. But for now shes just poor little Amanda. Poor thing. Suddenly were in the woods outside of Springfield and Ethan has a bag of pot. I really dont want to take part in this. Theyre going to have the worst conversations youve ever heard. Questions they ask themselves never mean anything. No thoughts will be provoked. You wont think about yourself and your role in your life. No.

Youll probably think about whether you like regular potato chips or wavy potato chips. The four of us share a joint while listening to top 40 radio. Whitney loves it. Ethan sings along with her. I think he wants to fuck her. Yeah. He definitely does. Amanda wants to fuck Ethan because Ethan wants to fuck Whitney and Whitney wants to fuck me. I think. Yeah. She does. Whitney tries her best to sound like the autotuned plastic dolls she hears on the radio but she always falls a little flat. No pun intended. No one dares tell her she cant sing. Weve told her before about her short-comings and shes left us with a delicate, swift, rage. I think of something quick, as not to be coerced into smoking. I have to pee. The car stops on the side of the road, almost in a ditch and I tip toe far enough yet close enough. What are you doing? I take a moment to reflect on Bogarts question. You mean besides peeing? Yes. Besides pissing. I dont really know. I told you not to do this. I know I really dont see the harm in it though. It doesnt matter what you see. It matters what I see, and I see a man being clumsy with his career. Alright... I wont do it. I dont think youll even get the chance.

What do you mean? I mean, shes driving away right now as we speak. Bogart cups his hands around the cigarette hes about to light and puts his head down. What!? Whipping that fast around while I was still relieving myself I would have sprinkled a bit on Bogart if he were still there. I can just see the red taillights through the gravelly dust. I can still hear the crunching of the little white rocks. Other than that all you can hear out here is my huffing and puffing and the white grass underneath my shoes. That fucking bitch. We must be five miles out of town.

I do what I must and I start walking. Walking on this stupid fucking gravel road on this stupid fucking night. The cold is bitter and violently whipping my skin.

I stand outside of her house looking into her window. Shes getting undressed and I can see her silhouette. Its about three in the morning now, I dont think shes all that stoned anymore. The aluminum frame of her door is cold against the bottom of my fist. The knocks I assume can be heard from her bedroom as loud obnoxious thuds. Erik? Oh my god! She has her mouth covered but you can still see the smile through her fingers. Can I come in? Uh I guess My coat just rests on the floor and she scowls at it and then at me. She must know Im upset but she obviously doesnt care. Or shes done this entire thing to force attention from me. Its a childish thing to do but she is a child. Who is Whitney? What? Who is WhitneyStevens? Whitney Tabitha. Im sorry? My middle name is Tabitha. I like that name. Offering up a little piece of you to make yourself seem more interesting. Why dont you tell people that more often? I dont like it Why? It just, sounds so old Old? It doesnt sound like me. You know? You mind if I call you Tabitha form now on?

She sighs and says, I guess Would you like to go out with me sometime? Go out? Thats how you kids still say it isnt it? Youre not that much older than me are you? No. I guess not. I just feel out of touch with society sometimes. Why do you think that is? I guess Im just different. Thats definitely true. Ill see you Friday. See you then.

Bogart is waiting for me in my room. Well, I hope it was worth it. Everything is fine. The mission isnt compromised. No one will find her body for at least a day or two and Ill be killing Christopher Black tomorrow exactly like we planned. Son, how fucking dumb are you? Im not dumb! You are fucking dumb! Shes the god damned town tart! Someone will be trying to call her now! Theyll start knocking on her door tomorrow, and when she doesnt answer theyll get worried. Soon after theyll start knocking on her door and when she doesnt answer theyll find a way in and see what youve done and theyll ask whom was she last seen with? Oh, I think someone will remember the two of you sharing dinner. Im killing Black tomorrow and then Ill skip town! Youre not even hiding her body? I can go back right now and do it. No you cant! Yes I can! And Im leaving right now! Son, you blew her blew brains all over the room! Are you going to get every last piece of her off the ceiling as well? My heart starts beating very fast. What was I thinking? You were thinking with your god damned dick Erik! Thats what you were thinking! And you almost didnt even get rid of your jacket!

I burned it! Just like I always do! Will you leave me alone for just a second? Bogart leaves and I splash some water on my face. I havent given in to my urges in quite some time. Its been years. Im usually calm, collected, and I never make mistakes like this. I run a bath. My head is killing me. Angry Bogart always has that effect on me. The warm water creeps up my spine and I feel a nice wave of relief hit me. Stop it! Bogarts voice makes me flinch. Jesus! Give it a rest! He stands in the doorway to the bathroom and flicks his cigarette into the bathtub. You mother fucker! No. No what!? Thats not how we behave Bogart picks me up out of the water and punches me in the face. The water explodes and flies all over the room leaving a darker shade of paint on the walls. When he hits me, my head bounces off the fiber glass walls of the frame of the half shower, half bath. Thank god they dont make these things out of cast iron any more. He picks me up and drags me through the room. Im getting rug burn on my knees but Im still half dazed from the punch to say anything or really care. My eye is split open and I can feel Bogart holding the back of my head and facing me towards the mirror above the dresser. Hes squeezing so hard I can feel

the hair slowly exit my scalp. I try and punch him and throw my left arm backward but Bogart dodges backward. My skull is thrown toward the mirror and broken glass falls down all around us. I would be able to notice the cuts all over my face if the crunch of my nose hitting the wall behind the wall wasnt so loud. He grinds my forehead into the serrated edges of the broken glass held up by my face against the wall. Hes unbelievably stronger than I am. Everything I do is no use. I feel paralyzed-like a ragdoll thrown around. He drags me by my ankle and the awful little shards of jagged mirror find their way into every little crevice of me. He opens the front door and its a fun house of black and red out there. Its a moving spiral of rough, hard, textures. The walls feel like concrete with a harsh popcorn texture. He picks me up and kicks me into it. It soon turns into a funnel getting smaller and smaller. I fall down into a hollowed ground. Theres a fear wrapped around me in the form of darkness everywhere. I cant see anything. Bogarts presence can be felt though. Sometimes I cant believe you work for me. I cant say anything. Im not allowed. Sometimes Im not sure why I dont do any of this shit myself. I still cant see him. Because you cant. Who the fuck said you could speak!? Youre not

even worth listening to. I can hear his footsteps echo around me. Theyre bouncing off of everything simultaneously hitting my head from all directions. Youre less than nothing. I deserve this. I deserve to be talked to like this. I deserve everything thats happening to me. Yeah, thats right. You piece of fucking scum. Bogarts gun behind me now, hes pushing it into the back of my head-slowly nudging me down to the ground. My face is pressing the floor but Bogart doesnt let up. Im grunting. I try opening my mouth to scream because it hurts so bad but now I cant shut my mouth and my teeth are being grinded into nubs against the sanding stone like ground. Do you want to die? Of course I do.

Flash. Snap. Boom.

Black isnt here yet. Hes not supposed to be but good surveillance is key to any good hit. Not that I would know. It makes me wonder how much they want to protect senators when I made it into the third story of this empty apartment complex with a perfect vantage point without any trouble at all. Maybe they get into politics because they have a death wish? The president has to be the most likely guy to be murdered right? And they know that going in? Politicians never get murdered though. They get assassinated. Theyre too good to be murdered like their humble servants. This isnt where I want to be. This isnt where Im supposed to be. Not in the literal sense of course. I mean in the course of my life. Killing. Suddenly now, I dont like killing people. I dont like it at all. Its what Im here to do though. We dont choose our destinies. Our destinies choose us. Sometimes thats a little easier to say when youre doing what you want or youre too lazy to change your life for the better. The question is why you even start thinking about it in the first place. If you want to change your life but are too scared to change it? Why bother? Why torture yourself with the thought of it. Maybe its sadomasochism. Maybe we hate ourselves and we subconsciously believe we deserve

to go through something like that. Maybe there arent any easy answers. Christopher Black is making his way to the podium and I can taste his blood in my mouth. My aim is steady. My aim is perfect. My aim is godly. I steady my breath and slow down my heartrate. Time slows down and everything is a bit clearer because Im still running at full speed, probably a little bit faster. I can hear what he says before he says it. Hes wearing an official blue-black suit with a red tie, an American flag lapel, and a very stylized haircut that looks almost more expensive than his suit. There are plenty of people to listen to him. Plenty of people are here to hear what he has to offer to them. If I knew any other way to leave this room without killing Christopher Black I would. I cant think of anything. So I guess its killing time. Excuse the terrible dialog. The wind is dead.

Two hundred and fifty meters. I wonder if knows hes in danger. I wonder if hes though about death and if hes afraid of it. Most people dont think about that sort of thing I guess. Most normal people dont. He must know it comes with the job though right? Why else would he hire bodyguards? Maybe he didnt hire them. Maybe one of his people did. Im distracting myself. Think about this Erik. Think about killing Christopher Black and how good it will feel. Think about how good its always felt. I know you have a problem with it now but now is not the time to question the ethics of your profession. Right now you cant think about whether its right or wrong to kill. Youve killed before and youll kill again. Why feel guilty now? Sometimes you have to realize who you are Erik. Sometimes you dont have a choice. Youre a killer Erik. Youre a dead man.

I can only hear my breathing now. Its slowed down enough. Its the only sound I hear. My heart wants to beat like a drum but it cant just yet. My gaze is strict. I move with him. Flash. Snap. Boom. And Christopher Black was dead.

Now reality has come rushing back like a tsunami and Im just a little boy sitting on the beach with my sandcastle pretending its the only thing that matters. I compile my things very quickly. Not forgetting the shell casing. The way Ive done a million times. Very thoroughly yet very fast I gather the supplies and make my way downstairs. There is a new rental car waiting for me in the alleyway that I left for myself. Im flashing back. The giant wrecking ball of this situation has just slammed right threw this window and hit me in the face. The rifle is in its case and I have everything I brought in this room, on me now. I run down the stairwell, sprinting even. The metal case holding the rifle slams against my thigh and feels like a great bruise forming. The cold is blue and harsh. Theres a man cupping his hands around the glass of the front seat of the car. I pull out the silenced pistol and shoot him and he falls against the snow and his coat is too thick for his blood to pour out onto it. Right about now theyve pinpointed that the shot came from this building as soon as they get here theyll piece together that it came from my floor. Right now Im on the highway leaving Springfield.

Another hotel. Another Assignment. I havent spoken to Bogart in days. Hes still upset with me. Ring goes the phone. Spin goes the world and pop goes the weasel. You fucked up. The first thing Bogart has said to me in days. Immediately following theres a knock at the door. A firm bold thing shakes me to my core. I know whos on the other side of that door. The doorknocker and swat team are ready to blow that door open. You forgot something. I already know what hes talking about. I started thinking about what he meant by fucked up the second he said it. And as soon as the loud thud filling up the room I remembered shooting that homeless person looking into my car. I remember forgetting to pick up the shell casing. They within hours easily traced the shot back to that building, looked in the alleyway behind it and found the dead man. The police then traced said casing back to the sporting goods store where I bought them. Then they found out it was me. Now, where am I? That was easily done as soon as they figured I was moving and trying to get out of town so they went to a car rental place. I used an alias but, they

had my picture because I always buy supplies with the credit card Bogart gave me. Company Expenses. After that they send out an APB for my car with a very specific license plate. They check hotels because again, I am on the move. And after all of that analysis you will soon figure out who it is knocking on your door.

Jonathan Kile Cardenas. I make up a different name every time anyone asks me. You know Ive always wondered Im not good with idle chitchat unless Im genuinely interested in something, How do you get the cars inside of here? What? The small town rent-a-car lady looks confused. Well, these doors are too small to fit a whole car in here how do you get them in here? She goes on to explain that the walls behind her can slide and be removed and they just drive them in.

The duffel bag underneath my bed slides out perfectly when pulled on at the very specific angle of the strap. I reach in and grab the pistol that put me in this predicament. I really dont know how Im going to get out of this. Another loud set of three hard knocks. Police Department! Theyre going to wait about thirty more seconds before they barge in. Thirty milligrams of xanax. Seventy Five milligrams of benzodiazepine. And some aspirin. Molly

The door bursts open and several flashlights at the ends of shotguns light the way. Theres very little that happens now that can be remembered. The snow comes in with them, along with the cold. I get one of them in the face and another in the arm. He spins around like a top, falling down like a spiraling drain, and he gets the guy behind him under his jaw. Using the paper-thin wall for cover was a silly idea. And I know it even more when buckshot peppers the wall on the other side and leaves me on the other side full of several holes. It hurts. It hurts real bad. I aim the pistol around the corner and use the mirror to try and aim. They all shuffle out when I spray a few rounds. Soon after they toss in a concussion grenade and soon after that they come rushing in. I only have two shots left. I throw them out and I think I hit one of them. And then everything goes black. I wish I could tell you more but its all just a little hazy. Its like trying to remember the details of a dream.

The marble floors, the florescent lighting, the manufactured atmosphere thats supposed to make you feel calm. The floral wallpaper, the constant beeps and buzz of the electronics keeping all of us alive, the boring routine of being checked on. Cold, polished, steel, rigid polyester sheets that were washed with too much starch. Scrubs and stethoscopes should be the name of this chapter. Hopefully its brief. I dont like being taken cared for. Call it an inferiority complex but I could do all of this myself. Most of the nurses seem stupid to me and the doctors always treat you like youre a waste of time. Cable television is on. Im not watching it but I dont want to be alone with my thoughts. It helps me keep a straight face. It helps me tolerate what I am. Im just distracting myself. Its still snowing outside. Im under constant surveillance. One of them shot me in the leg with his shotgun. Doesnt this all feel so ordinary? I wonder if Bogart will come visit me. I wonder if hes still upset. I dont really care anymore. Hopefully this is my way out. I cant kill anymore. I wont. That could be a lie. A lie that youd hear from a drug addict after he says hell never use again. I wonder if Im on the news. Certainly Christopher Blacks death did. Im not sure if I specifically will be on at five o clock though. I suppose he wasnt that important. The way he died kind of was though. I suppose their questioning my

motives now. That used to be how they caught criminals and murders wasnt it? They didnt have the technology that exists today. No DNA testing, not even finger prints. Detectives had to climb inside their culprits minds and understand why they killed to understand whom or how. Think like the killer. Sometimes I think the detectives and murderers of the day were very much the same people. How else would they catch them? How else did they understand them so well? No one will try to understand me now. No one will care. They know it was me and thats all theyll really need to know. I might get an interview or two. Theyre might be a made for television movie made about me and the things Ive done. In the end, everything I have done wont ever of mattered. And why should it? Its only after weve done the wrong thing that we know its really wrong. Its only after we touch the hot stove that we learn its hot. Its only after weve done those awful things that we know who we really are. Those things that you do without thought but with impulse completely. And after those things are done you have to face them. You have to look them in the eye and stare back. If I know its wrong, why do I do it? I know its wrong but do I feel really bad? Or do I feel an emptiness? And I know its there, do I feel bad because I dont feel anything at all?

Its hard to say really. The nurse comes in to check on me. Checks my pulse and makes sure Ill live to see another day. I wonder what she thinks of me, if she thinks of me at all. I could just be another patient. Maybe I think too highly of myself to assume I would get a special thought from her. If she did Im sure shes daydreaming about letting me die; accidently pushing too much of whatever theyre pumping into my arm. She could just despise me and hope that I get better and raped terrifically in prison though I imagine Ill be placed in solitary confinement. I dont know what town Im in. I wonder if Im back in Springfield. I wonder if any of the nurses knew Tabitha, or Whitney, as she likes to be called. I dont even know if Im under arrest for that. Surely theyve been able to put those two together by now. Knowing that I was going to get arrested, I would have killed her twice. This time around I would have strangled her. Everyone else I feel bad for but I dont feel bad about her. I would have tied her up and wrapped hemp around her throat. Not tying a full knot around her rather a loop around her neck and pulling each end simultaneously. Shed be on her knees looking up at me. Her mascara would have made these perfect pale lines down her face. Id let her gasp and get a little air, and then on her big exhale Id pull even tighter than before. Every time Id let go shed start crying again. Asking me to stop but I wouldnt. I would do this for a

good long while. Then I would take one of her steak knifes from the kitchen and start sawing off her head.

This cold reminds me of my grandparents farm. It was always cold where they lived. The footprints of every living thing carpeted what would be the yard. The damn birds that were always around and never shut up.

I can almost feel Mollys hand holding mine. I feel like Im asleep dreaming about it. Her warm touch is gold. Her left hand holding the bottom of mine, and her right resting on the top, squeezing but being delicate. Shed be upset if she knew where I was now. I can see her crying. Sobbing into the frame of the mattress in this hospital bed. Her purse still wrapped around her right shoulder. I can see her black crocheted winter hat on top of her blonde curly hair, the red lipstick, and the white pea coat. I can hear her cry too. There are few sounds that squeeze your heart the way the woman you love sobs can. Shes quiet but so is the room and I can hear her cries more than you can hear your thoughts. Im not sure why shes crying though. Surely its not because Ive been hurt or that Ive done such awful things. Its because she loves this horrible shell. This carcass resting in this hospital bed made her fall in love with it and she wished it hadnt. If she were here Id say I was sorry. Sorry just for that. She wouldnt say anything back because there wouldnt be anything to say. I know that. If there were a way I would. God knows I cant though. God knows too much about me. My ribs crack and burst at the sheer thought of kissing her. My heart is a live grenade and the fuse is as long as the time it takes for me to find her.

When Molly and I started seeing each other, no one thought she was special. Id be lying if I said I didnt think about what people would say if they knew we were together, but that thought quickly went away. Little matters when youve found love. She was beautiful. She was the kind of beauty that stabbed you and took over your basic motor skills.

So what should we do? I dont know I think we should call it quits? Molly, I love you. I hope she knows how much thats true. Right now Im sitting on a bar stool in the corner talking on a pay phone. The alcohol wont do its job the way everyone said it was supposed to. Ive drank three random drinks someone has ordered for me so far, something really strong, than something with a lot of sugar in it, and then something that tasted like blueberries or some fruit I was pretty positive I hated. Right now, shes crying her way to her new apartment, unpacking boxes with little dark polka dots her tears are decorating them with. Several of the things she has now are things we bought together or I bought for her. My grandmothers chair, a sofa, a painting, some plates, a trendy coffee table, some books, several movies, a fan that doesnt oscillate the right way anymore, a placemat I found hideous, sheets, the ugly blanket I teased her about, her pillows which are drastically different from mine, she would say. I know you do Erik... Its just; I cant do this. She cant be with me anymore. Thats what this is. This is a long time coming. This is making me pull my hair out. This is what holding back looks like. I cant be with anyone right now, its not the right time. Timing is everything right?

Thats what they say the difference between a good relationship and a bad one are. They also say that when they dont feel like saying whats actually happening. Whats actually happening is someone finally reached their breaking point. They found out how crazy you actually were and now they think youre too unpredictable. Not in the fun way though. No I was the kind of unpredictable where someones cat might be found dead in the bathtub. There wasnt much to it. She left. That was how it happened. That quick and that easy, I wish I could say painless. There are some things that I am sure of. One of them is hurt. I know all too well what that feels like.

I can hear footsteps from down the hall that sound like soft clicks and then a sheenk of a zippo lighter. The hospital feels empty except for those cracking sounds. The only two people in this hospital are Bogart and I.

October 10th. 1998. Target is a Robert Shotter. Male. Age 61. Mollys father.

Never let your emotions get the best of you. In this line of work you have to be a dead soul. Your heart has to be black. Your blood is wet cement and you definitely dont remorse over the dead. During the Spanish inquisition they believed the body was a prison that housed the soul, and that they were setting people free. Thats an ideology you have to nurture in your brain in order to do this job. Long before killing senators I killed your average Joes. Who have to start somewhere, and that somewhere is usually the bottom. Anyone will tell you. Were all waiting for a break. A chance to make our shit lives great. Killing Robert Shotter was going to be mine. He was somewhere between car dealership owner and a lawyer of a clearly guilty defendant. He wasnt that special but killing him was an opportunity to rise a little higher amongst the ranks of fellow killers. Personally, I dont care. Hes just another dead man to me. Theyre starting to blend together if you ask me. I dont get too much information on targets besides the basics. I might get some fun facts that could help me, does X every day at X. Thats helpful. I dont know if Id rather know more. I dont know if it would make a difference. I really do hope it would matter to me to know who these people are. I cant risk knowing. If I

knew too much and didnt want to kill them because I felt sorry for him or her, Id probably be the first hit man in history to be a conscientious objector. I read his file and read that he fought in Vietnam. This could mean that he might fight back. He could already know what its like to be killed. They never fight back. They cower but they dont fight back. They usually beg. Sometimes they accept it, which is easier. Theyll stand there and say things like, If youre gonna do it, than do it. Sometimes they try and run, which really the worst decision to make. It only makes me mad and therefore your death that much worse. I do have a bit of sympathy for my victims; the ones that comply get a safe and easy bullet to the head. If youre making things difficult, you might get a knife or a bowl of buckshot resting alongside your digesting dinner. Theyll barter; tell me about the amount of money they have to offer. Its interesting how much people think their lives are worth. Ive been offered every amount of cash, hundreds, thousands, hundreds of thousands. But a man needs a job more than he needs cash. Theyll tell me about their cars, their vacation homes, sometimes their wives. Sometimes their daughters. Theyll go on and on about no one would ever have to know. They tell me that theyll shut their lips and we would all walk away from this, alive.

I would say it doesnt work like that, but it doesnt even register. Ive trained my brain to not even hear the slightest whimper that could resemble a plea. Everything is in one ear and out the other. Theyre like dogs begging for scraps from the table while youre still sitting at it, attempting to enjoy your meal. Ive been offered drugs, women, and homes, brand new lives even. I cant know if they can deliver or not. I have to kill them. I need to kill them. I wouldnt be doing this if it werent a compulsion. Its a dark twisted addiction. People with addictions arent like regular people though. Theyre a little less than people. They cant help it. Theyre just obsessed. Slowly but, surely every single thing about their former life gets pushed out by their poison. Addicts arent always addicted to smack though. The same personality applies to people addicted to attention, to sex, to success, and to killing people. Your cells regenerate every seven years. Every seven years youre a whole new person. Your brain will emit several drugs a day for each emotion your suppose to feel and every cell feels those drugs, even your stomach. If you keep experiencing the fun of any of the drugs, your cells that are regenerating will start to evolve and only accept neurotoxin X, and it wont accept any of neurotoxin B.

Think of the lock on your door, now think of it changing every seven years, like the earth every seven years it changes but stays the same. Now imagine someone else starts using your lock on your front door and it works a little better. The lock likes this different key, and now after seven years it only know how to accept that key and not your key. Thats how it works. Even if you dont want to your body will get its fix. Once you start killing people you quickly realize there is nothing like it. Nothing. Youll try to recreate the experience but you never quite will. Feeling the power, the rush, the intensity, you can travel so far in that century that takes place in the single moment your victim dies. Youll be an entirely new person by the time you get back, thats how far. Youll have seen the curvature of the earth and seen enlightenment. Youll have a near death experience and realize how alive you werent, before that moment. You dont have anyone to talk to about it, so youll contain each and every little burst of adrenaline. Its amazing how quickly you forget that what you killed was an actual person, with a life, and a family, a wife and a daughter.

This is my work. I take it very seriously. I wear black pants, black suit jacket, white pressed button up shirt and a navy blue tie, no vest. A black fedora with a black ribbon that wraps all the way around it and a heavy wool coat because its snowing. I like the snow. It reminds me of my grandparents home.

I love smoking. Definitely takes the edge off. The way smoke rolls down your throat the way water falls off Niagara Falls. Cleansing the pores in your lungs and putting me at ease. Its really the hunt that you enjoy. Anyone could tell you. If you werent feeling the rush and excitement that is the hunt, the kill wouldnt be so satisfying. I used to consider using the services off the coast. Theres always a group of men in Thailand that will let you walk into a room and shoot the man on his knees with a bag over his head. Theres always Brazil that requires you meet the right stranger in the right bar on the right night that gives you a password for a big steel door and theres a little child tied to a metal chair that screwed to the ground. Theres always going to be a group of misfits in Africa that kidnap men and let you chop off their head with a machete so they can keep funding their civil war. But, its the depravity of which that lets you enjoy it. The only reason smoking a cigarette is so calming and perfect is because Ive wanted it all day. Goddamn its freezing; some snow gets into my car with me when I open the door. It crunches underneath my feet and it starts melting and feels cold. I grab the steering wheel and feel each and every inch of it. Every little detail holds a moment of ecstasy. I can hear every step Robert Shotter takes as he walks out of his building even though Im almost six

car lengths away, in my car with the windows rolled up, on a busy five o clock on a Friday. You might stop and think about each dead person but, think about all of the people that die in their office surrounded by all of the people they despise. I want you to think about the people that die cold and alone in a house thats empty and dark. Theres people that die each and everyday without my help that you never feel sorry for. All of the people that die without anyone noticing, think about them before you think about Frank Depot, or Tom Garcia. Think about the man who dies with his pistol he killed the Germans with, between his dentures before you think about Everett Staple, Richard Trees, or Steven Carter. Think about the homeless mother with her starving two darlings in her arms that freeze to death before you think about Peter Spen, or Robert Shotter. He holds his briefcase like a wet towel. My car is left running so the cold goes away and I start to get back on the road after he reaches into his coat to grab his keys. Were all driving real slowly because of the snow. Every second you can feel your tires lose and gain traction, its very irritating; almost slipping and dying at every turn. Mr. Shotter drives an old, but not too old, Cadillac. Hes a businessman. He only thinks of when and how he can make his next dollar. Its a shame his

only major life goal is monetary but it is admirable that hes that sure of it. Theres no telling what I want to do with my life, where do I see myself when Im old enough to retire. Theres not enough to go off of to learn about myself. Shotter takes a left turn. Figuratively and literally. Ive followed him home for the last three days and hes never taken a left turn down this road. I keep my distance. Why would a businessman notice a tale? Maybe he didnt. People change their patterns for remedial tasks all of the time. I suppose Im jumping to conclusions. Hes a slow driver. All of his actions are precise and well thought out before he even starts making a move. Fuck. Why is doing this? Im scared. Im not sure why. Shut the fuck up. Youre scared because your routine is getting bent. Routine is very important. Its as important to me as it is to Shotter. God, why is he doing this? This cigarette falls out of my window as soon as I start thinking about my next one. I dont take my eyes off of his red taillights and shuffle them out of my coat. Theres plainness to it. The smoke hollowing your chest like a huge drill going through a thin cave. That special light headed feeling when youre racing around the steel sphere of your skull. Robert makes a right turn into a gas station. Why is what I wonder. He doesnt park next to a pump, he parks in one of the spaces. Hes not getting gas, or pretending that he is. Im close enough to hear

his car door shut and he doesnt turn to look at my car, probably intentionally. It would be too obvious if he did. If he knows Im following him, than hes leading me into trap. He could have prepared for this. I dont know who he is besides the brief Bogart gave me. He could know what its like to kill a man. He could know already that sometimes you have to kill so that you can survive. No, not everyone knows that. And even if they did, they still dont know that they could. I decide to park next to his car. The cold pops me in the face, standing in the snow. I light another cigarette and screw in the silencer.

The snow crunches with each step, mine being the only ones. Besides Robert and I and the inevitable gas station attendant, the place is empty. With the clap of the drivers side door the world goes mute. There are no cars driving by; no one to spoil the moment. As afraid as I am Im still a hundred times more excited. Its a thrill. Theres a timpani in my chest begging to get out of its cage like a starved dog. The cigarette stays in my mouth. The traces of light mark the frame of the front door and a bells chime goes off when I open the door. You cant smoke in here. It sounds like a burlap sack full of full soup cans hits the ground after I shoot the man behind the counter and its loud enough for everyone in the store to look and see what it was that made that sound, even though they already know. They just have to look to be sure. Theres an old woman holding her coffee and it burns her when she starts scooting backward as if shes walking away from the bullet now in her stomach. Steams flows up like the smoke on my face and at this point Robert Shotter exactly knows whats going on. He looks right at me from across the store and he knows there is no way of leaving this place. Im still standing in the door way and I click it locked behind me, never lifting my gaze from Robert. Hes staring right at me as well. I can see his reflection in the glass cases of milk and soda behind him

Hes scared. Not of death but of what Im going to do next. His feet jolt in one direction but a well placed bullet at the glass behind him stops him in his track. Its at this point he finally raises his hands. Robert Shotter? Yes. Get down on your knees. You dont have to do this. Get down on your knees. His fingers are cris-crossed on the back of his head. Please He looks right up at me with a shine in his blue eyes, the same shine molly has. He begged and cried for five minutes, with his hands cupped and pleading at me. All of his front teeth were shown when he said please. Like a delirious five year old. He was almost willing to do anything not to die and I knew that. He regained his composure after that. I just stared at him with a shocked look on my face. He looked like molly. He picked up his coat and held it and with pride he was going to die. If youre going to do it, than do it. I probably still looked just as confused as when this had started moments ago. The gun rose at his forehead, I grit my teeth and fan my hand out so not too much of his blood gets on me. And suddenly I noticed something. Between my eyes about to swell and me pulling the trigger, I

noticed that they werent. I wasnt about to cry. I had expected to but, no tears were beginning to form. Whats wrong with me? I asked. Robert stumbled for an answer. He could see that I was in the middle of a crisis and thought that if he could help it would help him out of his. Its ok, son he said. No, its not ok said Bogart. He was standing behind Shotter his hands in his pockets. I understand what youre going through, now pull the trigger and get this over with and then we can talk about it. I dont want to talk about it! Ok, son, we dont have to talk about nothing. Bogart stared and waited, and then he dropped his hands in disbelief. Seriously? Whats so special about this guy? Hes mollys father. Why, yes son, I am do you know her? Oh, so thats what this is about? Bogart is clearly annoyed because he thinks he has to hold my hand through this. No, thats not what this is about? Ok, ok thats fine. Robert lowers his head while hes talking and it looks like hes bowing to the barrel of my gun. Then why are you hesitating? Why are you even thinking twice about this? I just dont want to do anything that might be wrong.

Theres nothing wrong with putting the gun down and walking away You dont want to do anything wrong? You fucking kill people, Erik. Thats what you do, youre a heartless, soulless, monster. Now kill this asshole and we can get on with our lives No I am not. Youre not what? I am not soulless, ok? Im a bastard, I know that but I still know the difference between right and wrong. No, you dont Erik. Youre delusional if you even think you have a firm grasp on reality. Let alone ethics. Thats not true. Yes it is. Now will you kill Mr. Shotter here so we can talk about this on the road? Its not true! Fine. Its not true. Youre full of the joy and wonder of that of a little boy, full of gum drops and lollipops, happy? Youre an asshole! and youre fucking crazy! No Im not!!! Im so mad Im shouting at Roberts face before I even notice hes dead or has been for awhile. See. Now was that so hard?

I walk out of the gas station. Im not happy with myself.

The hard slam of my car door makes Bogart appear. We need to talk. Thats never good. Listen, Im in a poor mood as is. Can we please talk about this later? No, we need to talk about this now. This is bullshit. I killed him didnt I? So whats the big fucking deal? The big fucking deal is that you hesitated. So? Youre a killer Erik. Youre not supposed to feel sorry for your victims. I dont. I know you dont You do? Yes He pivots forward to look at the dash. He looks disappointed. But, you wanted to No. Yes, you looked at him and you thought youd feel bad didnt you? But you didnt. And now you want to go cry about it? No, you need to silence that shit, right here, right now. Look, I need to leave this place. Alright, alright. Well talk at the hotel ok? Ok. I put the car in reverse and slip on the snow out of there.

When I get to my room, Bogart is already there waiting for me. Smoking my cigarettes and drinking my whiskey. Having a party? Or just drowning your sorrows? Hes mocking me. You know it is possible to have a pleasant talk every once in awhile. Ah, but wheres the fun in that? I light a cigarette of my own and pour whiskey atop the shaved ice in the plastic cup. Bogart watches me exhale and asks me about Molly. What about her? You need to get rid of her. What the fuck are you talking about. You. Need. To. Get. Rid. Of. I know what you said! Im not doing that. Look I saw what happened in that gas station too, and it seems its because of her. What the fuck are you talking about? Youre telling me you didnt even think about how Molly was going to feel about her dads death? Thats where it started and if we can just nip it in the bud, well be fine. Im not fucking do that! Hey, hey, hey calm down Nobody is telling you to do anything yet. I cant kill her, theres no way. I dont care what you say. Nobody said kill her Erik. Did I say that? Oh fuck off you condescending little fucking asshole!

Thats when the back of his hand meets my face. Not his fist, I dont deserve as much. I just kind of hold the sting for a moment and move my jaw around. You dont talk to me that way, Erik. Im your boss and you must do as I say. Or fucking what? Or youll be terminated. Oh, Ill be terminated will I? Oh no, what ever will I do? Well first youll have to answer for all of those dead people. I have all the evidence in the world to put you away, for a very long time, Erik. I suppose that hasnt occurred to me yet. And dont say youll run, because I know you will. Youre good; youll probably run for about four, maybe five years if youre lucky. And when theyre finally at your door. When they finally catch up. Ill be there. To end you, once and for all. So lets go with that then. Bogart takes my hand and wraps around my back and up my spine. He grabs the back of my hair and shoves my face on to the top of the dresser. Listen here, you little shit. You work for me! You do as I say! Dont get smart with me little boy! I cant kill her! I cant! It doesnt matter. You will. Please Please dont make me do this. Ill work for free, Ill do whatever it takes, dont make me kill her

My hands are on his shoes. Im sobbing on the crappy thin carpet. Get up Bogart says.

All of the sudden I can smell cigarette smoke. Its something Ive forgotten the taste of. You cant smoke in a hospital but Bogart can. I sit up in my hospital gown, rub my eyes and wait for him to say something. The smoke slides around the rim of his hat as he takes it off and sets in on his knee and says, Im terribly sorry Erik. For what? He just stares with a concerned eye and waits for me to realize what hes talking about. What are you doing to her? Im not doing anything. He tells me another one of his killers is walking up to her front door dressed as a mailman carrying a large parcel. No He rings the doorbell twice and coerces himself inside. You mother fucker. Listen, kid. You cant fuck up like this and get away with it. Hes dragging her to her bedroom by her feet. Her legs, hands, and mouth covered in duct tape. Hes wearing a sick grin. I start pulling cords and patches off of me. My breathing speeds up but time is some how going twice as fast and twice as slow at the same time. Stop it, kid. Its already been done. No. This cant be happening

I cant believe it. I collapse on the ground and cry and scream as loud as one would. The only one person in the world that knew the most of me was leaving. Its already happened, Erik. Suddenly, hate. For Bogart, myself, and all of my choices; life was just a really bad joke and this was the punch line. Bogart can see it too. He looks a little scared. Calm down now, kid. No. No, Im through listening to you! I lunge at him with my hands and my mouth wide open with my teeth aimed at his face. Bogart puts his hands up and around his face and I punch them out of the way to grab his throat. Hes looking straight into my soul. Hes looking at the deepest part of me. He knows everything about me, and in that moment he learned everything that made me who I was. He understood me in my moment of wrath. His breath his getting short while I pressed down even harder. And then I feel a cold slide up the side of me. Then it starts to sting. A moment of hopeless feeble limpness wraps all over me and then I hear his gun. Hed been fishing it out of his pocket. I lay on the ground bleeding and wondering why I would have let that happen. You see Erik? She did this to you. Youre still a killer. But, now youre just weak. Thats what she made you. She made you weak, and somehow gave you this idea that you could feel something. You just

want to so bad, you think you already have. Either way its not good for business and thats not good for me Im very disappointed in you Erik. You could have been one of my best. The others did it for the thrill, or some sick sexual pleasure, but you were a professional A pure killer. And no matter how badly you want to change that you never really will.

All of the sudden I can smell cigarette smoke. Its something Ive forgotten the taste of. You cant smoke in a hospital. I can smell it off Mollys coat, which she has yet to take off. I wonder how long she planned on staying. My eyes creek open and her blonde hair is there again. Her hands are holding mine. She looks at me with glossy blue eyes and she starts to smile through them. She has an unmistakable glow to her. She looks like the same kind of beauty a wife must look like on a fifty-year anniversary. She is everything to me. And she always will be. The doctors said that they werent sure if you were going to wake up. I didnt want to be rude. What? I didnt want you to get all dolled up not see me. You can see her smile and tears roll down her cheeks. Oh, Erik She gets up and kisses my forehead. The only thing I feel is warmth. The kind of warmth of stepping into a warm house after being in the snow all day is what it felt like to be around Molly. And her kiss felt like the essence of that.

We have to go. Where? What are you talking about? I cant explain now, just trust me, were leaving. I pull the cords and such out of me and grab her hand. I stand in the doorway and peak out the door. Nothing but doctors and nurses. Erik, there is no way youre allowed to leave. I have to leave. Still waiting to see a man in a suit. Why? We have our man now. I turn around to look her in the eye, and kiss her. I love you Molly. I love you too, whats going on? Hes taller than everyone else, he sticks out like a sore thumb. This guy has no idea what hes doing. Bogart might be throwing everything he has at me. Starting with the lower level men. Some men might be trying to kill me, and that might try to hurt you too. She takes quite a few moments to process all of this. The guy is walking a little faster than everyone and Im more than sure hes our man. I tell Molly to get in the bathroom and I stand behind the half way shut door and wait for him to show me what the back of his head looks like. The string connecting the back of my hospital gown comes off to wrap tight around my knuckles. In those moments where Im waiting I find pure uninterrupted meditation. My thoughts are clear and

my mind becomes a transparency seen only by myself. Something many churches have tried to teach you but never really do. Time doesnt stand still because they isnt anytime waiting for an inevitable easy kill. He walks in almost with thinking. His gun with the silencer is already being pointed with one hand and at the bed I was in moments ago. Thank god Molly cant see any of this. I swoop down over his face touch knuckles together on the back of his neck shrinking the radius of his windpipe with each exhale. Im really glad Molly cant see this. All of his training flies out the window because hes too scared. By the time he calms down enough and remembers the basics of what to do in this situation hes already to weak to really do anything. And then he goes limp, with firing a single shot he dropped his weapon when started choking him. I put the body kind of behind the bed so Molly wont see it when she walks out. I ask to put the gun in her purse and if we were to face any danger I instruct her to throw her purse at me and find a place to hide. Shes really scared and I feel bad about that, but its not entirely my fault so I let it go for now. We walk to the elevator as inconspicuous as possible. Did you kill that guy? He was going to kill me, he had a gun. Did you really kill him?

I think about answering her truthfully for a moment. Yes. Oh my god Youre a murderer She holds her face and starts to cry. I know, Molly, I know thats awful. Im a bad, bad, man. If even you could call me that. I know Im a monster. I know that. But, I also know I love you, ok? How many others have you killed? I dont know. You dont know because its so many? Yes. I could tell her that Ive killed forty seven people without counting the man in the hospital but, Im afraid to scare her anymore. Oh my god, Erik Youre a serial killer! I know, I know that I thought you had been framed for the senators assassination or something. I just thought theres no way little old Erik could kill anyone, and why a senator? Listen, Im sick. I cant help it. I work for an agency that hires me to kill people. Its sick and wrong. Im sick Molly The elevator doors open up. Rows and rows of cars and were looking for Mollys. Shes in shock. Shes not talking anymore. Shes doing everything I tell her to do exactly. Its like shes not even there. We walk a little faster than normal but, stop for a second to confirm whether or not I hear a third pair

of footsteps, which I do, getting louder and louder. Its hard to place him exactly do to the concrete echoes of a parking garage. I gently grab the pistol out of Mollys purse. Erik What are you doing? Nothing, everything is going to be fine. Dont turn around. I turn around fast enough to shock our stalker and shoot him the face twice. Molly still facing forward. Dont look back. She doesnt. I pick up his gun and his pants and jacket. We follow the beep of her car door unlocking. The car screeches when it first moves. The under carriage crashes against the concrete and a terrific past the exit. Im driving because I know where we have to go. Everyone is driving really slow because of the snow. Stopped at a red light Molly finds a moment of peace and asks, What the hell is going on Erik? Theyre after me. Who? Bogarts men. What are you talking about? Shes getting sadder because her idea of is changing too much for her to understand whats happening. I love you, Molly. Ok? I love you too, Im just really scared. I understand but- I can see a black sedan coming towards us to our right and I can feel a gun being pointed at me. I

dont move anywhere at first while the tires spin in place but soon after Im in the middle of the four way and two cars crash trying not to hit me. The black sedan matches my speed and tries chasing me now. Oh my god. This isnt happening. Everything is ok, Molly. Everything is gonna fine. I love you! Erik! Were being chased! And youre killing people! Oh my god! This is a lot to take in at once Im sure. Her crying gets louder in one big burst in the black sedan tailing collides into our back bumper. At this point I just have to push her out of consciousness and focus on driving. A turn here. A turn there. I cant do much in this snow. Finally the rear window is shot out and Molly is more scared than ever. Im so sorry Molly. Its ok She says its ok. Men trying to kill us are chasing us and she says its ok. I dont know why she did. I love you. I love you too.

I slam on the breaks. The black sedan crashes into the back of our car. It stuns me for a moment but Im prepared. Molly is too out of it to even notice. One gun is in my right hand with the safety off and the other in the pocket of the jacket. There are two men in the front seat of the black sedan. The one in the drivers seat has blood on his forehead from when his skull collided with the steering wheel. The one in the passenger seat however still has that amazing rush of adrenaline and starts to get out wielding a shotgun with the barrel sawed off and the handle as well with the accompanying duct tape. He aims it like hes seen in the movies and thinks one half second too long and hes dead. A loud snap and the crunch of his body hitting the snow wakes up our driver long enough to make eye contact with me. I shoot him in the mouth and then in the head. I look back at the car and see Molly through the empty back window space. She is mortified. Are you going to kill me? No. Im sorry I put you through this. Can we talk about this somewhere else. I just realized I was standing next to two dead bodies while talking to her. Yeah.

Theres some religious asshole yelling out of the television. When we walked in I was too tired to care about the filthy duvet on this hotel bed that I just fell onto it and started watching television. Thats what I did, Molly took a shower. I cant deal with that right now. The television gets turned off. Sorry. Shes drying her hair and walking to the bed. Shes calmed down quite a bit. She asks who those men were. They were men hired to kill me, because I was caught for killing the senator and thats the policy of the organization I work for. Which is? If you get caught, the agency kills you as an insurance policy. On our way here we stopped at liquor store, Molly is making me and herself drinks. No, whats the organization? I dont know. It doesnt have a name as far as I know. She asks how did I get involved with them. They just saw potential in me and left me letters asking me if I wanted to be a part of it. And you did? Why would you be a part of that? Im sick molly. Ever since that incident with my mom I cant stop. She turns her side to me and looks really focused at the floor. This is all a lot to take in. I understand.

I dont really. I dont really understand why its so wrong to kill people. I know most people think it is so I can expect people to not like when I tell them but I still think the people I kill always deserve it. So youre a hit man? Yes. Wow What? Its just so, I dont know. She gulps the last of her drink. Somehow I dont think shes that surprised. After everything Ive done, it all makes a little more sense when you find out Im insane. I wish I could have eased her into this a little more or better yet, make sure she never found out at all. She asks why, and how, and I dont have black and white answers. I dont go into gory detail, I just give her the cliff notes. Shes drunk and she asks what its like to kill someone and I explain as best I can, tip toeing around details that might frighten her. I think she can tell that Im sugar coating everything I say. She says, she just cant believe it. Someday this will all be behind us, I say. Someday this whole thing will just be a crazy story we went through. When were old and grey and life has slowed down well be able to remember this adventure. The only good people in this world were my parents and Molly. My parents are gone so now the only person worth saving is Molly.

The adventure isnt quite over. I wait till she falls asleep.

I take the two guns and get back in her car, which almost doesnt start. And I drive back into town where Bogart is still waiting for me.

I know hes still at that hospital. He knows I wanted to hide Molly first and that soon after I would come back for him. I know hes waiting for me to come get him. I retrace my steps back to him, starting in the parking garage. I park outside of it and walk to an edge to peek around. They are four of them. They arent holding their weapons; theyre just blending in. Appearing normal. Dont assume they have only handguns though. The closest one is sitting in his car pretending to read a newspaper; the second is leaning against another car smoking a cigarette. The third is pretending to wait for the elevator and the forth is working the tollbooth by the exit. I still have the silencer attached and quickly take out the tollbooth. Im walking really fast. Fast enough to get the drop on them but slow enough that they dont see me right away. Newspaper notices me and I unload four shots into the front windshield. The glass cracks really loud and Im out of bullets. I switch to the loud gun. Cigarette fishes out his pistol from his holster alongside the inner part of his coat on his ribs and points it at me. Flash. Snap. Boom. The whole place knows Im here now. The shot is really loud and I bet you could hear it a block from here. He falls back against the car but Im not sure if hes dead so I put another round in his head. The first

shot let the man waiting for the elevator know I was here, the second told him where I was. I take cover behind a car and wait for the guy waiting on the elevator to shoot back at me. I find the dead mans gun and take solace in knowing I have a few more rounds then the other guy. I peek up and try to see where hes moved. He shoots several rounds into the car and it scares me back down. I can see his feet underneath the car. I move the gun sideways and shoot at his toes. He lets out a loud, FUCK! and falls down. Theres a special pain when something delicate of yours gets hurt. Usually youll grab your arm when it hurts real bad, but if you know your toes have just been evaporated youll fall down and stiff out your leg holding you foot as far away from you as possible. He screams too loud to hear me walk up to him and shoot him a second time. I wait on the elevator this same way he did.

The metal doors part and you can taste the emptiness of my floor. There isnt a single noise being made. Its scary. Im not sure if its a trap or Bogart really is the only one here. I gently walk across the floor, pointing quickly at every vantage point I notice, when I notice it. Constantly scanning every nook and cranny of a hospital you notice there are a lot of nooks and crannies. Suddenly behind me the metal elevator doors close and it scares me so bad I flinch towards it and I skip a breath. You can hear your heart beat so well. My heart hurts from the stress. The elevator doors open again and theres a man with machine gun resting on his knee aiming right down the hallway Im clearing. I jump head first into an empty patients room at the exact same moment he shoots a three round burst and I can hear him walking towards me. The shots are loud but there isnt an echo. His sight from his rifle is placed right over the doors frame. He waits for me to shoot back for six seconds and he gets on his two feet and walks briskly towards the room Im in. He walks slowly and surely, ready at any moment to fire again. His arms are rigid and his jaw is clenched. His teeth have been ground down to nubs from this routine that hes all too familiar with. He doesnt blink, he doesnt lift his gaze from the iron sights placed on top of the doorway of the

empty patients room Im in. He doesnt have to look away or scan like I did. His target is in this room and nowhere else. His target doesnt have any other friends. His targets death is the most important thing in the world to him. He ponders the outcome of our little game of cat and mouse for one second too long and now hes getting scared. The horrible silence that lets you think whatever you want to will sink deep into your heart. At the end were all just as tortured and horrible as I am. We all have murky, sick, and ugly thoughts when were left alone for too long. Its only a matter of time before each and every one of us becomes the next victim to our own minds. He glides smoothly and quickly into the empty room, surveying each and every possible corner and crevice I could possibly be in. I wasnt though. I was behind him the moment he walked in because I had left out the window and crept to the window of the room next to this one and just waited for my prey to fall into his trap. Four shots in the back of the head, I pick up his rifle and walk to Bogart calmly, knowing that was the last of them.

The pale familiarity of my room. Bogart looks at the sunrise. Youre never going to be really happy you know? He doesnt look at me when he says it. He can sense me standing in the doorway. Im sorry if it appears as though you dont have my full attention its just, I dont think Ive stopped and looked at a sunrise in years and it appears this might be my last real pleasure. The chair hes sitting in looks so out of place. It doesnt look right to be in here, but it is. Hes smoking a cigarette and simply staring out the open window. I walk forward and put the barrel of the gun into the back of his head. Hairs stand and poke the rest of me. He doesnt look that sad, he knew this was coming. He must have. I certainly did. You can kill me Erik, but you cant stop yourself. Youll kill again. You have to. No, I dont. You really think so? he asks. Still facing the six am sun. A drop of tear falls out of his face. I do. I know something that youll never know. Whats that? He closes his eyes Wouldnt you like to know? takes a giant breath, holds it for a moment, and exhales.

Flash. Snap. Boom. And Bogart was dead like everyone else. I wake up the birds and the fly away and sing his swan song. His blood is a perfect circle around the legs of this out of place chair. I watch it grow and become something bigger and turn into something it never really was. I rest my hand on his now dead shoulder and look out the window, and watch the birds fly away. When I look down hes gone, like he was never really there.

Trying to find a light switch in the dark is always really hard. Im too hungover to really watch what Im doing. I just swing my arm out wildly. Erik Molly cries out. What? She lets out a whining moan with her eyes squeezed shut. What are you doing? She always needed me lying with her. I had only gotten up for a moment and she needed me back. Im just going to the bathroom. Are you hungover too? She just moans again. Im assuming thats a yes. I relieve myself in the toilet for a surprising amount of time and then turn around to the sink. I reach behind the valves where I keep the aspirin. I shake out about five and swallow them with a handful of water. I make to the doorway and I immediately walk back to the toilet and my own piss fumes waft into my face and I throw up the aspirin I just swallowed. Then, the dry heaves start. And then my ulcer flares up and Im stuck in front of the toilet for the next five minutes. I stop long enough to hear Molly walking towards the bathroom. Erik Hold onIm almost done. My right cheek is on the rim of the toilet and my left hand holding down the lever.

Erik, I have to pee. I get up and leave the bathroom. She pees with the door open which is something she never does and thats how I know shes really hungover and barely awake. I did have to carry her into bed. She probably wont even remember this. Suddenly I remember a moment from the night before of her talking to me. She held me and told me that some other girls told her to be careful around me. Why, I asked. She went on to tell me that I sometimes fuck girls over. And when she said that I felt ok. She knew this thing about me. She knew that I was awful, or chose to ignore it, but I didnt care. It felt like she just accepted me. Which is a hard thing to do. I think sometimes that most people who think they want to be loved just long to be understood. This meant she understood me. She saw my flaws for what they were and accepted me and loved me anyway, which is honestly what everyone wants. We all want to be loved. Thats the real reason we get up in the morning. You seek a soul mate to love you. You have children because theyll love you. You make people laugh so that theyll love you. You tell stories so that people will love you. I just didnt know that that was what I wanted.

Molly gets out of the bathroom and holds me and lays her head on my chest. Shes warm. I love you Lets not get this drunk ever again ok? Agreed Can I tell you something, Molly? She lifts her up. Yes dear? Her eyes are barley open. Im sorry. For what? She lays her head back down on my chest. For making you fall in love with me. I wouldnt love you if I didnt want to. Im sorry, that Im leaving you like this. Its ok, Erik. I love you, Molly. I love you too.

EPILOGUE

It wasnt as if I meant to hold his hand that hard, it was just a subconscious thing I suppose. When I finally let go, my fingers were stiff and sore, I didnt know I could do that. Of course it was the only little thing I could do at the time. The guards were standing there watching over me, as if Erik were going to get up and fight them all. Even though he needed a machine to help him breathe and keep him alive, somehow Erik was going to kill them all too. Somehow, I think he knew I was there. I talked to him for a bit and told him things he would have liked to hear. I know what he is, I know what he did, I had known all along that there was something not right with him, but I couldnt help it. I loved him. Im sure people think Im just as crazy as he is, but love will do that to some people. I knew what he was, he knew what he was, and I knew he didnt want to be that. It was if Erik was always looking at himself in the mirror. He was always analyzing himself. He never said it out loud or anything, I just had an intuition I suppose. If you let him in close he would let you know every little thing about him. Erik would tell you his entire life story in moans, and cries, and just the way he carried himself, never saying a word about it. I suppose I knew too much at one point. I knew he had finally reached a point of no return and he had drifted into something that wasnt human

anymore. He turned into the man that killed those poor people. We broke up, about five summers ago, and I hadnt seen him again until that day in the hospital. Thats when I think the killing started, I do feel a bit responsible for the deaths of all those people but if I let it get to me I dont think I could live with myself. I was scared as well. I was scared that he was going to snap on me as well as all those other people. Most people couldnt tell but he was almost always on the verge of an episode. What happened to him, its not that surprising. He never let me know but I did my own research, a story like that gets in papers in quite a few places. Seeing your mother like that, I dont care who you are, youre going to be awful afterwards. I think part of him blamed himself for not saving her. Im not here to justify Eriks wrongs though, I just wanted him to be happy, because I loved him and I thought he deserved that much. If he would have survived the ordeal with the swat team they would have locked him away and thrown away the key and then killed him some hundred years later, and he would have deserved that much as well. Underneath it all though was the man that stole my heart, and I loved him. Last thing I said before I left was, I love you too. Because I knew he was thinking of me and how much he loved me.

DANGEROUS AWFUL ME BY Clayton Mistler

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Clayton Mistler resides in Carrollton, MO. He is in charge of the comedic troupe Tyrannosaurus Beat Box, has released music, as I am the Devil and has released a previous novel, Love Drunk Songs.