Broken
Allright then. You open your car door and turn outside while still sitting in the drivers seat. You crumple the page with all the information in it, grab your zippo from your pant pocket and light it, then throw it to the ground. You watch it burn.
The short notice time means you won't have time to make any plans. If you're lucky there might be a building with a good viewpoint near that bar, the Boulanger, you could just snipe him from a distance. However, if you want the extra cash, you'll probably have to find out where that briefcase is beforehand. After you pull the trigger there won't be much time to look for it. It's surprising how quickly the boys in blue get around when you don't want them to. You don't want any close calls, this time.
You stomp out what's left of the paper, making sure it's unrecognizable. You repeat the same procedure with all the photos, except the mug shot, which you pocket in your breast pocket along with your lighter. You turn inside, slam the door shut, start the car engine and drive off towards Mahler 125th train station, where your equipment awaits you.
Why do you do this, why are you on this line of work, anyway?
Maybe you'd be horrible at anything else. You can't stand routines. Office work would drive you insane, maybe psychotic. Meaningless, repetitive work day after day. You sure as hell got enough of that in the army. The good part about this job is that you do one, maybe two gigs in a couple of months. You grab the money and enjoy the good life for a while. That is, until you do it again. Money. If you didn't get it this way, you probably wouldn't at all. And that would not be good. Also, that "enjoy" there sounds highly ambiguous to you, too especially when you think about it in light of what your life has started to taste since since you don't really know when.
When you're not planning a hit or doing one you spend your time and money in bars, brothels, which on a good day, or night, manage to give you what you want.
The bad part: the dullness of it all. The mind numbing boredom. The hours slip by, slowly, slowly. One by one, it all sails away. Insipid and nondescript. Another empty bottle, another dog faced hooker, what's the meaning of it all? They all blend and mingle in the same nondescript greyness, forming a sickening soup of nothing. It's hard to stand at all. What's it like to live without anything to grab into. Television bores you. You don't really enjoy reading. So you go to the movies a lot (always alone). God, you must have watched thousands of them by now. You like old detective flicks of the 20s and 30s. The ones that really amuse you are the ones with hitmen. All those inaccuracies. It's funny, how some guy with a typewriter thinks he knows how a killer thinks, how a killer walks, how a killer talks, how a killer does. The hitmen are always the tough guys, the real bastards. The ones with the dazzling women and the golden teeth with a cigar clenched between them. The ones who never take a shot in the balls or the mouth. In reality, most of you are like everyone else: broken beings with more or less artificial excuses. Somehow lost. It's weird how people disapprove of killing yet somehow fantasize about it. A killer is a tough guy. If so, then you must be one hell of a bastard, since you've killed dozens of these motherfuckers. A killer is someone in the right (or wrong) place at the right (or wrong!) time. A man can kill another as easily as he would crush an ant with his thumb, if he has a gun in his hand and has reasons to pull the trigger. Nothing else to it. We're all dust.
God, you wish you had a drink.
You arrive near the train station and start looking for a place to park your car. You quickly find one, park up and get out of your car.
Bla bla bla bla. Time to go home.
The short notice time means you won't have time to make any plans. If you're lucky there might be a building with a good viewpoint near that bar, the Boulanger, you could just snipe him from a distance. However, if you want the extra cash, you'll probably have to find out where that briefcase is beforehand. After you pull the trigger there won't be much time to look for it. It's surprising how quickly the boys in blue get around when you don't want them to. You don't want any close calls, this time.
You stomp out what's left of the paper, making sure it's unrecognizable. You repeat the same procedure with all the photos, except the mug shot, which you pocket in your breast pocket along with your lighter. You turn inside, slam the door shut, start the car engine and drive off towards Mahler 125th train station, where your equipment awaits you.
Why do you do this, why are you on this line of work, anyway?
Maybe you'd be horrible at anything else. You can't stand routines. Office work would drive you insane, maybe psychotic. Meaningless, repetitive work day after day. You sure as hell got enough of that in the army. The good part about this job is that you do one, maybe two gigs in a couple of months. You grab the money and enjoy the good life for a while. That is, until you do it again. Money. If you didn't get it this way, you probably wouldn't at all. And that would not be good. Also, that "enjoy" there sounds highly ambiguous to you, too especially when you think about it in light of what your life has started to taste since since you don't really know when.
When you're not planning a hit or doing one you spend your time and money in bars, brothels, which on a good day, or night, manage to give you what you want.
The bad part: the dullness of it all. The mind numbing boredom. The hours slip by, slowly, slowly. One by one, it all sails away. Insipid and nondescript. Another empty bottle, another dog faced hooker, what's the meaning of it all? They all blend and mingle in the same nondescript greyness, forming a sickening soup of nothing. It's hard to stand at all. What's it like to live without anything to grab into. Television bores you. You don't really enjoy reading. So you go to the movies a lot (always alone). God, you must have watched thousands of them by now. You like old detective flicks of the 20s and 30s. The ones that really amuse you are the ones with hitmen. All those inaccuracies. It's funny, how some guy with a typewriter thinks he knows how a killer thinks, how a killer walks, how a killer talks, how a killer does. The hitmen are always the tough guys, the real bastards. The ones with the dazzling women and the golden teeth with a cigar clenched between them. The ones who never take a shot in the balls or the mouth. In reality, most of you are like everyone else: broken beings with more or less artificial excuses. Somehow lost. It's weird how people disapprove of killing yet somehow fantasize about it. A killer is a tough guy. If so, then you must be one hell of a bastard, since you've killed dozens of these motherfuckers. A killer is someone in the right (or wrong) place at the right (or wrong!) time. A man can kill another as easily as he would crush an ant with his thumb, if he has a gun in his hand and has reasons to pull the trigger. Nothing else to it. We're all dust.
God, you wish you had a drink.
You arrive near the train station and start looking for a place to park your car. You quickly find one, park up and get out of your car.
Bla bla bla bla. Time to go home.