Written by A Short Story
Written by: Idris Safari
Preface:
As I’ve stated and deleted online on various occasions and multiple platforms, for no reason; I’m not much for sharing anything I personally cherish as a true display of my emotion. I strain to compress these inner feelings in my gut like a flagellant with a cat of 9 tails.
but I want to see myself as an artist.
I understand that nobody cares. I don’t either,
but I do. I care a lot about everything.
I hate myself, and I don’t like that I hate myself.
I like just about everyone else.
Try to make sense of that. I can’t.
The Hitman is based on an old story that I wrote as a teenager but no longer have, it was essentially an action sequence describing an unnamed man who wakes up next to his hanging dead body every day and then he spends his day disposing of the body, every single day. That was the whole story.
I hope this one is more entertaining.
Introduction:
I’m not sure why I picked up smoking, the window would have been closed otherwise. Now the wind had decided to blow my hair across my face but, as I admired the fall breeze, I noticed the white powder lifting and blowing away from my phone screen, where I had just meticulously broken down two lines of actually really good cocaine that I was planning to insufflate.
In with the nagging, from this two-dollar whore that attached herself to me like a smoking leech the moment she saw the mud on the cuffs of my pants
What a fucking dingbat. I don’t usually speak about women that way, but if you saw her, you’d get what I’m saying.
Her parents must be insane. I feel bad for her, I feel the knots in her hair while she vomits a twenty-four-dollar martini all over my boots.
She watched too many movies, maybe listened to the wrong music,
maybe this coke is too good.
To think, a criminal would need a motive or a prize to commit the most heinous acts.
Some people kill just because they can,
I do it because I have to.
I started because I thought it was cool;
I’d be doing it anyway,
at least I’m getting paid
to be a faceless man with a stiletto switchblade in his bespoke suit
cops a suave attitude, and keeps only a postage stamp book disguising a list of targets to execute.
Some clients pay extra if they prefer what method I use.
I often wonder if those movies are true, if there is an upward ladder in this career, or if I’m doomed to a cell, rather doomed to a shotgun shell once this gig gets too far away from me.
I rarely think about the future, but I sometimes wonder if I’m the best person currently doing what I do, and what good could I bring to the world if my skills were more valued.
I’ve never met the shadowy government figure that supposedly takes credit for all the real-world terror I work so hard to produce. If these government “fixers” really do exist, then they are good at their job, and I suppose I will never know if they are real or not. It’s a shame because I would like to apply. I could be really good at destabilizing regions and taking out generals and nuclear physicists; I would have no moral compass, spreading democracy and freedom by any means necessary. However, I would never join the US military. I don’t work well with others.
So, her parents wanted me to teach their daughter a fatal lesson, her bad party girl image had tarnished their name for the last time, and she was at an off-grid rehab center when their new stepdaughter was chosen as an heir to their burgeoning energy monopoly. I wondered if she could have seen this coming, would she have cleaned up her act, knowing her parents would have her killed in such a gruesome way? The irony is how the most savage killers in the world couldn’t stomach the reality of what cocaine-induced alcohol poisoning actually looks like.
It takes a while
and I’ll probably have to force it, she seems to know her limit.
I’ll need to invoice her parents for my shoes, I just hope this girl doesn’t haunt me like the other ones do.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, I will slip out the back, before this broad finds the wherewithal to call for help, I’ll just put this needle in her and finish the job.
There is no climax to my story, no redemption arc or love interest or quest to embark. I’m only here for the money; to elongate my vacation from hell by any method I deem convenient. I like nice things; if I have to crush the dreams of young men and women to get them, so be it, you should have been quicker-witted, kid.
I have been through all the shit. You wouldn’t know it by the way I carry myself upright, a sly smirk on my face like there’s any semblance of self-esteem left no, you’ll find no ego here; I’m just trying to fit in. You wouldn’t hire someone for a hit if they were all disheveled and suspicious when they walked in. So, to hell with all this nonsense that happened when I was a kid. It has nothing to do with my current profession. I’m not one of those freaks who envision their mother or father when cracking a neck or dumping a body off a bridge. I’ve already tossed all my baggage, and I dissolved any feelings within those bags. Nothing gets under my skin; nobody gets in my way.
But there’s one contract that didn’t sit right, that I never quite put away –
Part 1:
Who Killed My Kid
“10 G’s”
He said it was only ten thousand dollars to have someone “popped off” or “removed from the equation.” It’s amazing to think of little me even in this situation, I was always good at making friends, and I know how to blend in. Somehow, I’ve found myself in an underworld of mistreated children, slanging chemical diseases, and discussing the financials of destroying families.
“I would do it for 2500”
Hey, don’t judge, I was starving; in this economy, it’s either you or it’s me.
It’s not going to be me.
The stories of men setting whole villages ablaze in the Vietnam conflict are far from outlandish to understand when you imagine all the children these fathers were forced to leave behind to die by a foreign hand.
It looks like cowardice but, it’s called surviving.
You or me.
“And I’m right here, you know me. So, who’s the lucky fella?”
Suddenly the coke tray had stopped in rotation, and the client shot a nod over to my gangster friend who seemed to be caught a little off guard by my offer, but through the foggy haze that filled the room, I could see him pondering the idea. it would be easier for him to not be the middleman in this situation, we are talking about murder, after all.
“You ever kill a kid, kid?”
An even longer and more serious pause now deafened the room. I always thought these dealings were done in one-on-one conversations, but I’m not one to consult another man’s business operations.
“Buddy, I specialize in women and children.”
Mutual laughter broke the painful silence. There’s a reason I became friends with these scary individuals in the first place, they like that dark kind of shit. I’m good at alleviating tension in rightfully tense circumstances. Part of me hopes this is just a test though, I’ve never killed anyone, and I’d rather not start with kids.
But like I said before, I’m starving.
My friend Killer looks slightly concerned at first, but he understands my situation. I never asked why his name is Killer, I figure it’s none of my business and I don’t really care.
“Yo look at you move up in the world. This man right here is the best dope dealer I know, he’s got my letter of recommendation for anything.”
The client ordering this hit was not the type I’d expect to see holding business meetings in my friend’s trap house. He didn’t seem to care either way who was doing this job or the possibility of their success. This should have been concerning to me in hindsight.
“This works for me as well; you look capable enough. Here’s a card with some information and where to find him. There’s an address on the back where you can pick up the rest of the payment when it’s finished, I’ll give you the retainer right now.”
“Awesome, but hold on. Is it really a kid or-”
“Oh no, this is a grown ass man, don’t worry. He’s been a real problem for my operation, if you’re in this game, he’s likely to become a thorn in your side as well. Just doesn’t respect territory or our traditions. A lot of your generation doesn’t”
This old man has no idea, I don’t respect anything. When our conversation was over, I followed the client out to his car and he handed me one of those leather bank pouches with $1,250 that he’d pulled out of a bigger black duffel bag full of neatly stacked cash, it was just like in the movies. For a moment, I felt elated that I was hired to commit this murder on behalf of some mysterious operation we’re supposed to respect. I also realized that I should have said a higher number than 2500.
The card had an address on the front that looked familiar, it was in my hometown; a place I hadn’t been in almost 15 years. Should be easy to get around unnoticed by now, everyone I knew there was either dead or disappeared into thin air. I’m one of the few that disappeared.
Killer stopped me just as I got into my car, he said he needed to tell me something, so we took a drive around the block for a smoke.
Maybe he just wanted to give me advice or tell me how he got that nickname.
Maybe he wanted to kill me for butting into his business.
I tried and failed to break the tension.
“Thanks for the connection, dude. I’ll take any advice you got. I didn’t wake up this morning looking for this kind of job, but I have thought about it before. You know I’ve always liked those mob movies. There are some interviews online of guys who supposedly worked around the Iceman back in the day. I feel like they’re all feds though.”
“Hell ya man probably, Yo you remember that day we got robbed by those cholos? It was like right when we had first met each other. By the end of that day, we ended up with twice as much yay that got jacked from us. That shit was legendary, homie. Some of my folks still don’t believe that shit for real.”
“Ya, that was crazy, man that was like 5 years ago. I can’t believe I used to be like that. Just scandalous.”
“You know how no one retaliated right, I mean we just ran up in that crib and fucked that shit up.”
This line started to pester me, not sure where Killer is going with this, I’m wondering why he wanted to go for a drive. Is he just reminding me of an embarrassing story for fun? We got knocked off; we knocked off the guys that did it.
“I mean, we didn’t kill anyone, it’s not like they were affiliated or anything, right?”
“Ya, those guys were mobbed up, bro.”
“Oh. Shit, so why didn’t they come after us?”
I realized that Killer would be less likely to kill me if we were in a moving vehicle that I was driving, but this did not quell my nerves at all.
“Well, they would have, but word got out to my peoples first, and they had me take care of it before it became a problem. So, it’s all good, but I did have to go back and merc those fools though.”
Now I was nervous. I sped up a little bit just to be safe. I wished he weren’t sitting in the back seat.
“Well, shit. Why are you telling me this? I mean, I’m sorry you had to do that. You could’ve told me, dude; I might have helped.”
“Nah, nah, that’s not why I’m telling you this. I just wanted to tell you this part as advice, ‘cause it still bothers me sometimes. After I clapped ‘em, I made it look like they went missing; I had to lie low for a while in my cousin’s trap. Shit sucked yo I was just watching TV all day and eventually those guys ended up on the news, turns out they had loved ones and shit. Not just like a mom and dad, but they both had kid’s man. I don’t have kids; you don’t have kids. It just didn’t feel right seeing that shit, and now every time I go to bed or even close my eyes, I see those kids’ faces, clear as day bro, and I never even met ‘em, but it’s almost like I know them personally in these dreams you know? And they hate me, ’cause I ruined their lives.”
“Damn Killer, that’s heavy as fuck. It’s understandable though, it sucks you had to do that. Are you saying you regret it? Should I think twice about this career move?”
“Nah, man, I don’t regret shit. I don’t care about all that. Those motherfuckers would have killed both of us, no two ways about it. Fuck them kids. I’m just saying when you finish this job, try to avoid watching the news for a while, just in case. That shit fucked me up. ‘Less you know about this fool, the better. Hey, maybe you can be Killer 2 after this.”
I think it’s interesting the way some criminals can dissociate themselves when recognizing the consequences of the harsh actions we commit and justify.
Good people are capable of doing awful things.
It wasn’t just seeing those children on the news that gave Killer nightmares, he would have those whether he knew about the children or not. But he doesn’t know that, so he blames the TV for his bad dreams instead of seeing himself as a sick murderer who took two lives away. I also think this ignorance would feel better than my complete understanding of right and wrong, and feeling like I’m somehow above it all. After all, I was also involved in those murders. I was the one they robbed. Yet, I felt nothing, learning about the actual cost.
I’ve never slept well in my life, the entire warning meant nothing to me. Those kids are probably better off in foster care.
Before getting out of my car, Killer handed me a Glock-19 pistol with a silencer that looked like it had been buried and dug up multiple times. Killer is probably my best friend; we only ever see each other to exchange money for drugs so, I’m not sure why he looks out for me in these ways. I suppose I never will. This is just the way of men, though. Nothing extraordinary.
The way of men.
Killing them is an age-old profession.
Nothing extraordinary.
Here I am, at the start of my career.
A grown man now; to be a killer of men.
Part 2:
Much Ado about a Murder,or Two.
The next few days of stalking and logging vehicle departures had left me restless. I should be ready to move in on my target now. I’m itching to get paid.
I’ve seen one, and now two cars have left. This means my game is all alone. All that stands between me, and my money is a perfectly climbable live oak tree that leans parallel to a window, the card says this is my point of entry. If I climb it quietly, I can get a clear view, take my shot and blow this guy’s stupid fucking head off, then I’ll go collect my winnings. I was arrogantly hoping there was another job waiting for me.
Tossing toys away from the dismantled treehouse I climbed into sent a feeling of nostalgic rage up my spine. I hadn’t seen any kids leaving or arriving, they must be old. However, once I reached the end of this branch, I heard a sound from that window opening. I had not planned for a scenario where my target perfectly times a cigarette and meets me at the top of this tree.
Now he’s looking right out of this window and directly at me.
Bang
You’re dead, you little-
shit.
Wait.
Oh my god.
I just murdered a kid.
I think
I must have the wrong house.
How fucked up is this?
I fell down the tree like a rock, got back into my suburban, and sped off into the night. Driving faster than I could think, so hoping if I got far enough away from this cursed place, the memory wouldn’t stay with me.
There’s no going back to before this mistake. I was so afraid of this dark and dastardly bed I’d just made. Was I paid to take a whole life away?
After a couple of hours, I would feel no strain about this event. Only left with the feeling that I did a bad job. I didn’t even see the body drop. The kid could be bound to a wheelchair until he’s rich enough to have ME popped off. After all, it only took a small paycheck for me to do it, imagine being vindicated by this gig.
I’m so finished.
I still had two days; I could have waited. In my go bag was a lockbox with some smaller bags, and tiny bottles of alcohol. I went to a motel, and I got wasted. The most harrowing aspect of my first job is the current lack of feelings and associations with names, places, faces, and ages.
I had always thought some agreeable ideas or morals shaped the way humans should act in the world, and that we all followed a basic set of rules to achieve common decency. The ones who didn’t follow these rules, I thought, would suffer the consequences.
This isn’t true. It’s all just fate.
Some people disregard humanity and lock their morals away on the path to becoming great.
I think of moments like these: like accidentally shooting a teenager in the face, where everything you thought you were in relation to the universe has been thrown through a dark tunnel and into places you previously thought too perverse. These are the junctions in your life track, you can try to resist your path and risk total derailment, or you can drive the fucking train right through the mayhem to reach your destination.
I arrived at my arranged payment location a couple of minutes early and high out of my mind. Lucky for me, the only thing waiting was a broken-down Chevy, the plate number was K1l73R, so I figured I’d try the door. The way I could hear the engine settling told me the truck was parked recently, probably being watched right now. I found the bank bag inside the door compartment and shuffled quickly back to my suburban.
The whole ride over, I fantasized about how I would lay into that shady old man. To reprimand or demand some kind of explanation for what had just happened. As if I wouldn’t end up with my blood sprayed all over the concrete parking lot.
The biggest problem about working in the criminal underworld is that there’s no manager or human resources to complain to, no claims department. You have to get over it.
I seemed to get over this incident immediately when I counted double my agreed payment, and a new card with a fresh target just for me; this time for the full
10G’s.
The further I got away from that town, the less I felt completely horrible for my situation. In hindsight, the kid may have been an older teen, and probably didn’t see it coming; the other people living there didn’t seem much older, probably bad parents. He would have been fine if he didn’t smoke cigarettes. What a little shit. Good riddance.
Should I have been concerned that I almost didn’t feel anything? I was focusing on my next objective. A new town, and hopefully an older target. My approach should be more calculated and mature this time around. Though, I can’t stop thinking about how that kid just stood there. Like, I watched the life of a grown man leave a child’s body.
At this thought, my world started to shake, I pulled the car over to dry-heave and convulse. My vision was fading. Did someone somehow poison me? Am I dying? My chest became tight and just breathing was like a grasping fight. How can I feel such intense grief and know that there’s no reason for me to be sorry?
It gets to a point where all I can hear is the roar of the highway and sparse chunks of my breakfast splashing on the asphalt and back onto me. I can feel my suburban swaying by the force of the cars speeding by, while I sit there in my passenger seat, curled up and crying like a newborn baby.
Suddenly from nowhere, a wave of relief crashes into me, I stopped feeling this useless self-pity, and a primal indifference washes over me like an acid bath over stained porcelain.
I still experience these fits more frequently than I would like to admit. Sometimes it feels like a waking dream, only it’s more of a nightmare where my own body has turned against me. Like an internal being trying to punish me for past deeds.
Unfortunately, at this time, I still had my whole career ahead of me. I couldn’t stop and acknowledge any wrongdoing or acquire any more second-hand wisdom. I didn’t go through any traditional trade program or college, I’d never see a therapist or a palm reader; I was putting myself through the school of hardened crooks and armed robbers. I wasn’t about to drop out now, I had just started working on my thesis.
I was getting my Ph.D. in being a menace.
Part 3:
Kill yourself.
“Yo whaddup Killa 2! You got that psycho glow! Yo, I do have some good news for you bro, ain’t nobody cared about that buster-ass fool. My people say they haven’t heard nothing about any murders in Caldwell. What’s it been like a week? That means you got away clean as fuck homie! So, you think you stayin’ in this shit or what?”
Killer had no idea; he would never let me go on a mission like that if I may have some apprehension about the particulars of the task without at least a warning. I was hesitant to even broach the subject now out of pure embarrassment, and for not wanting to seem like a bitch. What if murdering children isn’t such a big deal in my new line of business? You might not expect it, but apparently, women and children are the most murdered demographic since humans have existed. We like to think of the average hit being done by a professional; sulking in the shadows and taking the life of a bad, or unlucky man, but more often than not it’s just some lunatic shooting up his family’s breakfast. Or paying some other bad husband to come help chop up his wife. Sex workers or homeless women go missing, and people will actually tell you that it’s not the worst thing in the world.
That’s that you or me mentality.
No matter the outcome, judgment by a man whose nickname is Killer feels like something I can manage now. He also knows my hometown, maybe he knows more about where I was. I can barely remember the punk’s face now. I’m not sure if I even finished the job.
“Dude, do you know anything about that guy? Who did I just do in? That place looked so familiar, man. I just need to know if you know- “
“Woah, woah slow down busta I was just messin’ around, did something go wrong? I figured Ida heard from the old man if there was a problem, same for you homie, he’d reach out, trust me.”
“I mean he just looked like kind of young is all, the client said I was taking out a grown-ass man, I don’t even know. Does it even matter anyway? I think I’m gonna be fucked up from this. Do you know who lives in that house or not? Is this even the right address”
The feeling of death is creeping back in as I hand over the contract card, I’m not quite sure how this was happening, or if it was happening. My chest is tightening again. Is he lying to ease my mind, to give me a softer perspective, for the sake of his self-preservation? Or did I really just not experience my own reality? In which case, I’m completely crazy.
“Ya, actually I’m pretty sure that’s the same addy he sent me to. You can relax bro, nobody lived in that house for like 10 years, as far as I know. OG never sends people to a real hit the first time. I took care of that grown man we were talkin’ about. Damn, you ain’t seen the note he left in that house? He does all this weird shit as a test; says he can’t trust people right off the bat. If you had shown up to pick up your money all pissed off or covered in blood, he woulda just capped you right there. He wants fools to think outside the box and shit. I knew you were a smart-ass g though I wasn’t worried. What the fuck happened out there, bro?”
Killer must have handed me back a different card, this one has the address of the home I grew up in, nobody had lived there for as long as I can remember. I never saw this card leave his hand so this must be it.
Such a strange series of decisions could lead to the complete unraveling of one’s total self-perception.
In a way
I was being paid to kill myself,
I guess that’s how I ended up in this business.
That’s when I picked up smoking again.
I.S.