Diary of a Hit Man

I walked up to the bar, ordered a double scotch, and laid a battered sawbuck on the veneer. What a night. First my car gets stolen, and then my girlfriend dumps me (again). And she’s not coming back this time. No way. My back is aching from a hard day at the mill, and I’m spending my last ten bucks burning taste buds and killing brain cells. I don’t even have enough cash for a room till I can get to my Safe Deposit Box Monday morning. Fuck it. I’ll sleep on the beach a couple nights.

The car was a liability anyways, what with the contents of the trunk. I want a smoke, but I’m still trying to stay quit. That’ll change in a couple days, but I don’t know it yet. The scotch is going down like, well, scotch. It hits my stomach hard and my head goes into the box. Thanks for that, at least. The sawbuck will get me another drink, and I’ll be able to leave a decent tip. I’ll get a third, though, and leave a shitty tip - it’s been that kind of day. Work’s been picking up at the mill, and that always means turbulence. This month it’s been Prague, Milan, and LA. And that fucker who stole my car? He’s in for a couple surprises. One pleasant, on not so pleasant. If it’s the latter, I’ll hear about it on the news. We’ll see. I needed to get rid of the car anyways, but this has happened before and it tends to be… messy. LA was messy. And by messy, I mean even if they could have re-attached that guy’s arms, he would have bled to death before the ambulance showed up: that kind of messy. Of course, I mean that figuratively. His arms weren’t completely torn off. But still. Messy. And that illustrates my point about the strength and weakness of cash - it can be messy, I mean: fifty grand is great pay for a day’s work (and a week of planning), but it sucks losing fifty grand when your car goes missing. And by your car, I mean my car. I mean, if it was your car, you’d just file an insurance claim, and hope like hell it didn’t turn up before the Insurance Company coughs up and the finance company lets you off the hook. You’d lose (maybe) a couple bucks in change and some CDs, right? I lost fifty grand and my fucking tool kit, which will cost me another twenty-five grand to replace. Plus, it’ll take me weeks to get re-established with the credentials I need for my next job, so I’ve got to live off my savings till I can go back to the mill. And all this during peak season. Shit.

This is going to cost me a quarter million before it’s over, if you count lost wages.

I’ve been tracking this bastard for 3 years, and I’m no closer than I was that first day when the Looey called me into his office for my special assignment. I’ll never forget those photos; arms ripped off, heads blown open, and the blood. Oh my God, the blood. This guy wasn’t like the professionals I’d tracked earlier, he enjoyed the work. He enjoyed the mess, the stench of death, and, goddamn him, he enjoyed the chase. I almost got him in Milan, but a flat tire and a dead bellhop later, he was gone. And I’ll never forget that wave and a smile he gave me as he drove away from me in Prague. I shoulda had them then, but I was slow… too slow.

I’ll get him yet, dammit. I just need one break. His tool kit. A body in a trunk. His car getting stolen. Then he’s mine. And justice will come swiftly and, God help me, painfully.

A friend just sold me a car for $400. Sweet. When I got home, I opened the trunk. I found a big sack of twenties and an awesome tool kit. The previous owner must have been a television repairman or something. He repaired the TVs Elvis-style: with a gun. Nice one though. Nice ones that is. I never thought I’d actually see an AN-94, and that was the cheap one. There was some other stuff in the trunk. So I shut the lit.

I sold the car back to him for $350, telling him that the steering wheel was too small. Fair enough. I kept the bread and the kit. Now I’m gonna go meet my lady for a few drinks. I know a dive near the beach, where a bunch of washed-up losers hang out. Nobody bothers nobody there, especially nobodies who are suddendly bankrolled. Besides, I’ll have a nice surprise if anybody starts asking questions.

Nice wheels, like taking candy from a baby. Slicker than snot. Hey a duffle bag, this just keeps getting better and better. I’ll look in a minute, soon as I make sure that cop I just passed isn’t on my ass. Did he give me the eye? Shit. Be calm, be calm, ok, only going 62. Steady, steady. Ok, he isn’t interested. What is that smell? You’d think that guy would keep this kick ass ride clean. Of course anyone who wears loud yellow Hawaiian shirts, and sandals with socks has issues. He deserved it. What in the name of God is that smell?

(Damnit, I am always too slow)

Curse you, js_africanus, curse you and your pretty dog too!

Get this. I sell this jamocke I know a car for four bills. I picked it up when some guy left the keys in it and the car running. Nice ride, but not enough documentation for my tastes. Anyway, so he’s back a few hours later, complaining about the steering wheel, and wants to sell it back to me. I offer him three, but evenutally go three and a half. It’s a nice ride, like a said, I’m sure I can get five for it. And I’ve still got the fifty to keep me in gas and drinks until I can find another slob to unload it to.