The Assassin’s Letter

Dearest Reader,

I want to tell you a little story:

With aviators concealing searching sea-blue eyes, brown hair freshly cut to a dirty 30’s esque undercut, a well-worn leather jacket unzipped revealing a broken-in, muscular physique, a gold chain adorning my neck; and blood diamonds through my ears. All a disguise. I have no face to call my own. I’m a blank slate, the situation calls for how I manifest my appearance.

I strut up to her, she’s sunbathing in a reclined lawn-chair. Basking by the pool, no one else in sight. Two-piece bikini leaving little to the imagination. Her petite, shapely figure doesn’t throw me off in the slightest. I’m here for one reason only, man or woman; if the money’s green… They’re good as dead. Wavy crimson hair flows past her shoulders. She sips daintily from a cocktail, an expertly rolled joint in her left hand.

I have a Smith and Wesson, a cheap yet effective 9mm sidearm tucked in my coat’s inner pocket. The weapon is equipped with a silencer, has a ten plus one round capacity. It’ll get the job done.

She notices me, she smiles. I nod. Sauntering toward her with exaggerated confidence. Time to put on a little act.

“How you doin’ girl?” I say, grinning, projecting loads of artificial emotion and deceivingly sweet positive vibes.

“Good honey, yourself?” She says before taking a long draw from her joint. She look’s to be in her late twenties.

“Good, Just another day on the job.” I say reaching into my coat, my hand pulls the gun, I rest the barrel in the middle of her forehead.

She freezes, a single tear rolls down her make-up laden cheek. She breaks down, pleading, begging. “I’ll do ANYTHING you ask! ANYTHING!” She screams.

I squeeze the trigger, my heartbeat is calm, I’m not even sweating. A toned down bang, the smell of gunpowder. The small gun barely kicks back in my firm grasp.

The surrounding tile-work is now decorated in brain-matter. Her spilled cocktail mixes with rivers of blood. I pull out a Polaroid camera and snap several pictures from different angles. I vanish as swiftly as I had arrived.

A nondescript envelope, addressed to no one in particular, is under a rock by a tree somewhere out there. Once they retrieve the photos, I’ll get my payment sent to my Bitcoin wallet.

I’m a hitman. It’s what I do, I’ve been doing it for awhile. All I can say is be fucking careful with who you choose as an enemy. Cause if they’ve got more money then you… I might just show up at your doorstep, or maybe while your sitting by the pool, drinking a cocktail and smoking a joint.

I have many faces, I’m your teacher, your boss, your co-worker, that cute girl sitting on the other side of the coffee-shop. I am everyone, but no one. And if you dear reader, are reading this sentence right now in this very moment… I’ll assure you this.

You won’t be around much longer. Run.


A Lone Hitman

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