27 January 2018

Interview with an Assassin

They say that every good crime story has an inciting incident. Every criminal has a reason they became who they became. You know, like growing up in poverty, or watching your mum and dad get killed by some rival gang, or just the environment in which you grew up. Otherwise, telling your story won’t be plausible or believable. I say bollocks (or, that’s what I would say if I was British. At least, I think that’s what they say. Isn’t that what they say?).

My story? Hell, I grew up in little ol’ Connecticut. Granted, we weren’t well off but I never went without. My brother and sister? They even had it better. When they were growing up, my folks were making better money. They got to go to Disney twice in their childhood. Me? I was already out of the house, already making my own money. What did I need Disney for?

No, no. I wouldn’t necessarily call myself a criminal. Do I live within the law? No, not really. But I don’t steal. I don’t cheat. I don’t kill…unless I’m paid handsomely to do so. You see, most people don’t expect a woman to be their death dealer. I get close. I become a silhouette. You want it to look like an accident, from natural causes? I’m your gal. And, I charge a pretty penny.

Meh, no reason really other than being curious if I could do it. And the money. I’m a little bit of a money whore. Money makes the world go round, right? I want the quickest path to the most money. Believe me, I’ve thought of other ways. Getting into finance or sitting behind a desk coding (those fuckers seem to make money hand over fist) but I couldn’t be bothered with the required education or wearing pencil skirts for the office.

I’ve never had a queasy stomach. The blood doesn’t bother me but, to be honest, it’s rarely bloody (remember, natural causes are my specialty). You’re probably wondering if the killing bothers me. Nah, not really. Life is life, death is death. When your number comes up, it’s time to go. I don’t think I’m screwing around with God’s plan or Fate or the natural order of things. I think I am the natural order of things. You must have done something or been somewhere to get yourself killed. Even if it was just pissing someone else off. There’s a pecking order and you, well you’re just below someone else.

Women? Sure, they’re not a problem. I’m an equal opportunity killer. What kind of feminist would I be if I didn’t kill women? You’d be surprised though that I haven’t killed that many. Out of the forty or so hits I’ve done, I think maybe five of ’em were female. No matter how much ground we’ve gained, we’re not at gender parity yet.

Kids? Nope, not unless they could be tried as an adult. I don’t know about you but I did some seriously stupid shit as a kid. If I was going to end up dead because I made some stupid adolescent mistake—what do I mean, “tried as an adult?” Come on, how daft do you have to be? You know, if they murder someone or molest someone. There are some kids that just need to be swept from this earth.

Let’s just say no one paid me for it. She was one of my five women. I grew up with her. It was sloppy and messy but it showed me I had the stomach for it. And, my little town was a lot better off for it. You go back far enough in the local paper, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You seem like a smart journalist.

Hah! This line of work doesn’t exactly lend itself to being intimate. Why? You interested?

Being my own boss. Making my own schedule. Yes, that’s definitely it.

Hmmm. Medium rare steak and a pat of butter. My pop used to make the best steaks on the grill. It would have to be his steak though as my last meal.

Oh, the pretending to be interested in them. You should see some of these marks. Sleazy fuckers. I’m telling you, I’m doing a service. But, I like the research, trying to find the best way to get close. You know, I acted in high school and always liked it. I just think of each contract as a one-woman show.

Did you want a glass of wine? I’ve got some chardonnay. Isn’t that your favorite? Here, let me pour you a glass. No, no, I don’t drink while working.

Categorized in Fiction and tagged with postaday