I kill people. It’s how I make my money. It’s not a malicious endeavor and it never has been. It wasn’t the first time when I was fifteen years old and the girl next door paid me fifty dollars to smother her father in his sleep and it wasn’t yesterday when I was paid five hundred thousand dollars string up a 64 year old rotary member and leave him to bleed to death while he watched his intestines change color on the floor. Some folks just have to get their message across with precise and intense flavor. Most of my clients are burning with blind rage but lack the intestinal fortitude to get the job done and the grey matter required to keep from getting caught. Most of my marks are completely oblivious to the fact that they have done anything wrong let alone something so heinous as to drive a perceived loved one to pay to have them killed.

“I had no idea she cared that I routinely and savagely penetrated our daughter while she slept in the next room”.

This type of vocation has the tendency to in every way dictate how you lead your life. You may or may not be surprised to find that most women are somewhat turned off when they find that you have ruthlessly beaten over fifteen men about the head and neck until they vacated our plane of existence. Needless to say killing people can put a slight damper on your social life. Woman and men alike have a propensity to make character judgments based on your chosen profession. I personally find the concept ludicrous. Ones choice of employment is entirely inconsequential in my eyes and has no bearing on their personality. I cannot make any appraisal of a woman who works as a secretary that I cannot about a woman who performs abortions for a living. They are both just doing their jobs so that can get home and get on with the things they truly love like crocheting and sewing garments from human flesh. It’s a crazy world filled with crazy people and I’m trying to kill some of them.

I push the accelerator down toward the floor as the engine of my Chrysler hums in front of me. I slide into the corners low and fast. I instruct the interface to begin playing Highway To Hell at eighty-eight decibels. That’s high speed, life risking drive volume. Rattles the bones and awakens the senses. The car silently does as it is instructed, which is nice. The first thing I do when ever I am going to be in any extended contact with most modern interfaces is to disable to the voice response unit. Whatever asshole thought computers should have the holier than thou condescending tone that they all do should be castrated in Madison Square Garden and left as a warning. The opening chords to Highway To Hell slam into my cochlear nerve as I accelerate into a turn. No stop signs, speed limit.

The highway opens up into the coast curving along its rocky edge. I watch the moonlight reflected in the pacific ocean as I asses the concept of being Shot Down In Flames. By the time Richard Ramirez’s favorite track begins I’m pulling up to the gates of one of the largest homes in California’s wine country. This is home of Elvin McCarthy. It is nauseatingly massive and gratuitous. McCarthy is one of the the richest men in the world which invariably means he will be paying me to kill some other inordinately rich gentleman. The rule of thumb seems to be that rich assholes tend to kill other rich assholes, which doesn’t bother me in the slightest.

I get out of the car and make my way to the biometrics scanner. I will have to stand here in front of a computer that costs more than most people will make in a year and endure a litany of tests before the com is even turned on and McCarthy is alerted to my presence. God I hate the twenty-first century. Voice recognition, an infrared scan of the vein structure in my hands, retinal scan and finally a facial thermo gram. I’m not sure what bothers me more, that I have to stand here and deal with this shit while McCarthy is undoubtedly serviced by an army of fleshless sex dwarves or that he has all the data to check these scans against. Regardless I pass with flying colors and the com crackles to life.

“Evans! Glad you’re here. Come on up.”

I walk into the foyer of McCarthy’s home and fight the urge to turn on my heels and walk right back out the door. The man has massive amounts of money and loves to flaunt it. Like my father told me before I watched him gut and skin a stray cat on our back porch; “Nobody likes a show off”.

McCarthy’s deep raspy voice echoes off the Italian marble floor as he makes his way down the curved staircase.

“Evan’s I’m so glad you could take time out of you’re busy day to meet with me.”

“What can I say Mr. McCarthy, I love helping people.”

“Don’t give me that shit. You love money. And please, call me Elvin.”

McCarthy steps down onto the ground floor and shakes my hand in his meaty paw.

“Let us adjourn to the study.”

The walls of McCarthy’s study are adorned with priceless paintings. Paintings which I had thought were on display in places like the Louvre. How foolish of me to think that when I was looking at a Da Vinci painting I was really looking at a Da Vinci painting.

“You’re a whiskey man right Evans?”

“Yes sir I am.”

McCarthy pours us each a drink and sits down across from me.

“How’s business Evans?”

“Well fortunately for me people still have hatred burning in their dark little hearts.”

Despite the fact that this is some of the finest whiskey to ever cross my pallet I am growing increasingly impatient. There’s nothing I hate more than when these rich fuckbags try to act as if we are anything more than business associates. Sometimes I wish we didn’t even have that connection. Unfortunately the money in killing for the middle class is not enough to even begin cover my cocaine habit.

“What’s the job McCarthy?”

McCarthy dips into his chest pocket, withdraws a photo and slides it across the mahogany table.

“Jesus McCarthy you don’t fuck around. Bishop is a big fucking fish. This is not going to be cheap.”

McCarthy reaches behind the chair which supports his wiry frame and produces what looks to be a deflated and wet red beach ball. He throws it on the table and it lands with a nauseating plop. I feel moisture spatter across the tops of my hands.

“What the fuck, may I ask is this?”

“This, my son is the stomach of an infant white rhino.”

I had heard of and seen many pieces of evidence which supported the claim that McCarthy was one of those morbidly wealthy rich men you read so much about on the internets. I was not aware however of the extent of his sick fuckery and penchant for meaningless and horrific displays such as this one.

“Get this thing the fuck away from me.”

“Oh you are going to want to become quite familiar with this particular stomach my boy. Within the walls of these viscous and rotting innards lies your payment.”

I bolted up out of my seat and made for the door.

“You are one sick and twisted fuck McCarthy. I will have nothing to do with this. You and you’re disembodied endangered stomach had better stay the fuck away from me.”

“He has my daughter.”

I keep walking.

“Couldn’t give any less of a fuck.”

“Two-Million dollars Evans.”

I stop dead in my tracks, something I would later punch myself repeatedly in the groin for. I walk back over to McCarthy and do my best to shoot him a chilling glare however I’m sure it couldn’t have frozen ice. I snatch up the stomach and struggle to keep my gag reflex at bay as it squishes between my fingers. I spin on my heels and make for the door before some other sort of fuckery rears its ugly head.

“I don’t do recovery McCarthy. You want your girl back send one of you castrato goons to get her.”

I give him the finger over my shoulder just before I close the door behind me.

“I’ll show myself out fuckhead.”

She smelled of sex. It was mind numbing. Her lipstick had pulled outside of the confines of her lips, dragged out onto her chin and various places it obviously should not have been. Her eyes lightly rolled back into her head leaving no doubt that she was under the influence of a litany of psychotropic drugs. Her chest heaved as she moved in my direction. she flipped her hair back. A flash of glistening metal. She had been modified. A shaft of medical grade stainless steel implanted directly behind the right ear. At specific intervals a dose of a high quality derivative of MDMA was injected directly into the ventral tegmentum. I’ve often wondered if Fritz Haber’s intent was to aid in the creation of mindless sexual automatons for the personal use of the rich and powerful in the 21^st century.

In my line of work I have often had the misfortune of running into individuals such as this young woman. She once had a life, plans, dreams and family. Now her dreams consisted of heavy petting and hot violent copulation. The first time I encountered one of these poor souls I was not aware of the reality of the situation until my pants were around my ankles and she was bent over the hood of my Chrysler. Her screams were, I’m sure heard in the next province as I took core samples. Once I understood that her advances were not made at the behest of my stunning good looks I was appalled and even a little hurt. I held her down and unscrewed the reservoir of drugs from her skull. I now know that there is no going back for these people. The unspeakable acts that are performed on these young women are only tolerated under the influence of massive quantities of massively expensive drugs. The girl I liberated is now spending the rest of her life in a maximum security mental institution. The last male guard assigned to her cell block was found with his cock manually removed and forced into his lower intestine. I suppose it’s arguable that she was better off before I got to her.

I was standing in one of worlds best known underground members only sex clubs. I struggled to keep the whiskey in my glass as a lovely young lady who may have once been a literature major savagely pawed at my meaty parts. Just another day at the office. Lawrence Bishop was a revolting meatball of a man. I smelled his cheap cologne before I saw him. The irony that this man could buy and sell entire countries and yet still insisted on wearing the most inexpensive cologne available was not lost on me.

“Stacy! Come here!”

Bishops voice was all at once commanding and nauseating. Stacy’s head snapped in his direction as her hand froze on my manhood. Her eyes again began to burn with unexplainable passion as she sauntered over to Bishop and ran her hands over his elephantine chest.

“You will have to excuse Stacy here. If it has a cock she wants a piece of it.”

“If she didn’t you might never get laid Bishop.”

Bishop threw back his head and his numerous chins jiggled as he let out a horrendous gurgling laugh. Stacy looked up at me hungrily as she pulled Bishop’s flaccid lesion covered cock out of his pants.

“That’s why I like you Evan’s you don’t pull any punches do you, you old son of a bitch?”

I turned away from repulsive scene next to me and looked at the bartender as I drank down the rest of my whiskey. I needed to get this over with and soon.

“McCarthy sent me Bishop.”

Bishop ran his meaty paw through Stacy’s matted hair while I watched reality sink into his thick skull. I caressed the handle of the knife in my jacket pocket.

“And what precisely does Mr. McCarthy want from me?”

The bartender poured me another drink. Bishop continued,

“You can tell him he can have his daughter back if that would make things right between us.”

I swallowed the whiskey feeling it warm my stomach. I turned to face Bishop trying to avoid taking in the vision of Stacy suckling at his mutilated cock.

“You and I both know it’s too late for Stacy to go back. She can never truly go back.”

In one deft move I pulled my blade from my jacket and plunged all ten inches into Bishop’s non existent neck. Blood sprayed across the room spattering various stunned rich and powerful men. He fell to the ground clawing at the crimson gash. I bent down and pulled the knife from his body allowing more of his vital juices to splash out onto the floor. I wiped the blade on his 10,000 dollar Fioravanti suit and lit up a 5 cent smoke. I made my way to the door as Stacy continued to ravish the corpse of what was once one of the most powerful men in the world.

It wasn’t really a bar per say. More of a box with booze in it. The walls were permeated with the stench of pathetic dying souls spending hours upon days staring into the bottom of a glass. Hope had left this area long ago. Hope cannot gain a foothold on floors which have been on the receiving end of blood and vomit so many times. In all reality I should not have been here. My heart told me to turn and leave. My soul clambered to escape from my asshole but my mind had other plans. Places like this always fascinated me in an entirely morbid way. What makes death, sorrow and failure stink the way it does? More importantly does my fascination come from the awareness that this is precisely the kind of place I will end up?

I slid onto a stool and lit a smoke. The bartender positioned herself in front of me. She was smoking as well. However I was not eight months pregnant. Her eyes were as dead the fetus which pushed against the inner wall of her womb. I ordered a well whiskey. Had I been in the Midwest I would have made it a rail whiskey. I’ve seen enough blank stares from bartenders in Baltimore to know that they don’t speak that left coast jive out there. She poured an ungodly amount of whiskey into a glass and narrowly avoided dropping her cigarette ash into my booze. I took my drink and sauntered over to the juke box. Horrible little bars like this particular shit hole inexplicably have the greatest juke boxes. If you’re going to drink yourself to death there might as well be some good tunes playing. At least that’s what my old man said to me the day before he gutted the mail man with a bread knife. I dropped in a few quarters and kicked back the rest of my drink. I could feel it burning a hole in my esophagus as it slid down to my stomach to do battle with my soft parts. D4, Got To Give It Up by Thin Lizzy. A6, Hot Blue And Righteous by ZZTop. B9, Whammer Jammer by The J. Geils band. Three bands whose legacy does not do justice to their true past. J. Geils being the best example. Before they sullied their name with the atrocious pop shit pile that was Centerfold they had self respect, they had balls. The J. Geils band played white boy blues based rock and roll harder and faster than the Stones with and endless supply of the best drugs. Yet for most folks they will forever be na na nuh-na na na. Fucking tragic. Shitty speakers cracked and buzzed to life as I walked back to my stool and ordered another whiskey from the walking death incubator.

Perhaps it was the effect of the shit booze I had been drinking all night. Whatever it was I didn’t hear him walk up behind me until it was too late. He had the shaft pushed up against my kidney. I casually turned to see the drunken mad man holding me at bay. His grizzled beard retained chunks of food which may have been there for hours even days.

“Don’t fucking move kid”

Even it I wanted to I don’t think I could have. I was paralyzed by the stunning stench leaking from his mangled maw. The smell said words his mouth couldn’t,

“I hide rat carcasses in my mouth so my mother can’t take them away from me again”.

I looked into his eyes and found the usual. Pain, desperation, a deep longing for rightfully illegal sexual acts. But what if anything did he want from me?

“What can I do for you old timer? There’s no reason to bring your piece into this.”

“I can’t help it kid. It talks to me. It wants me to do things. And I can’t FUCKING LEAVE IT AT HOME!”

I looked down to inspect the talking firearm and found something that in hindsight was none too surprising. There I found this crazy sweating old man’s discolored crooked cock pushed into my belly. I looked back up at the manic old man and I could see the palpable confusion and fear in his eyes. I turned back to the bartender and ordered another drink. It was going to be a long night.

I don’t know how common it is amongst you “normals” out there but I have had and inexplicably high number of jobs for less than two days. I’ve never been fired from a job in that little amount of time. Every time I just walked away and never came back. They were all the kind of job I couldn’t possibly subject myself to for any amount of money. The kind of work no sane person could stand for any more than 16 hours. However because these jobs we’re so hellacious they are amongst my favorites. Allow me to regale you with the story of the worst job I ever had. It’s far and away the best job I’ve ever had.

I was seventeen years old I had just mad the incredibly wise decision to drop out of high school and I needed income. Grass doesn’t pay for itself you know. I was flipping through the paper looking for the perfect job when I saw it. It was an ad from a home audio company. It seemed too good to be true. They were looking for young men with a cursory knowledge of electronics for the installation of home audio equipment. They we’re willing to pay 15 dollars an hour to said individuals. I called Jeff who was also a high school drop out with no future and told him about the ad. We both agreed we were the right men for the job. We drove out to their warehouse for an interview. The office in front was starkly decorated almost as if they had just moved in. As far as job interviews go it was a breeze. We talked with boss for a few minutes.

“You guys know anything about home audio equipment?”

“Sure. We’re musicians.”

“You guys like people?”

I lied,

“Oh yeah.”

“Well you guys get the job. Be here tomorrow at seven thirty.”

Jeff and I drove home and celebrated by getting real damn high on that grass that doesn’t pay for it self. I picked Jeff up at seven the next morning and we drove out to our first day as well paid home audio installation experts. We parked around back and walked into the warehouse. What awaited us was amazing. There were probably about twenty guys running around jacked off on cheap dirty methanphetamines. Metallica’s Ride The Lightning was blasting from a stereo as they loaded speakers into a fleet of vans and minivans. Once the vans were all loaded we were split into teams of two. Each rookie was paired up with an “old pro” that would show us the ropes. My “pro” was Scott. He looked like Chris Penn with Jack Burton’s hair and was wound up like a meth fueled top.

“Alright bud! Let’s do this!”

We hopped in the van and we we’re off… Well kinda.

“Hey bud! I gotta make a stop first! You don’t mind do you!?”

“No I d…”

“Don’t answer that! Its doesn’t really matter if you mind does it!? HA HA HA!”

We stopped at shitty hotel near by and he jumped out of the van and ran inside. I listened to the radio. This was 96’ so that would probably put that god awful Cranberry’s song on while I waited for my “bud” to rail up in his hotel room. About ten minutes later Scott came twitching out of his hotel room rubbing his nose as if he was afraid it would jump off his face.

“Alright Bud! Let’s fucking rock!”

He cranked up the stereo and we pulled out of the parking lot with Linger pouring from the windows of our filthy little minivan.

“So… Where’s our first stop?” I asked assuming we would be making our way to a house where we would install speakers for a nice middle aged couple who would feed us cookies and lemonade.

“Where’s the Mexicans in this town!?”

“…What?”

“The Mexicans! Where are the Mexicans!?”

“…I… Uh… Well there are Hispanic people all over Sacramento.”

“Well where do they like to hang out!?”

“I don’t… I gue…”

“Shit this looks good!”

He wheeled the van into the parking lot of Tower Records and pulled up next to a young guy who was getting into his car.

“Hey bud! Hey bud!”

Then began a pauseless diatribe which almost sounded rehearsed.

“Hey bud! You like stereo equipment? Check it out bud! Look man me and my buddy here work for Apex Audio we we’re doing an install around the corner and our boss accidentally loaded an extra pair of speakers into the van. Where’s that invoice Jaz.”

This is where I learned the extent of my job for the rest of the day. It was my duty to produce the false paper work when my “bud” feigned not knowing where it went.

“Shit here it is! Check this out man! We were supposed to get four speakers but the guys in the warehouse fucked up and loaded up six! Here’s the deal bro these speakers are real fucking high quality! These things sell for fucking 1500 dollars each! Jaz! Where’s that brochure!?”

At this point I would produce a laminated brochure which clearly stated that these speakers we’re “really nice”.

“Check it out bud! Nobody knows we got these extra speakers I could sell em to you for dirt fucking cheap! Shit man I could give em to you for 600 bucks I mean fuck my boss right?! HA HA HA”

That was it. We did this all day. We never even stopped to eat. However “bud” did drink three or four bottles of Pepto Bismol. Some folks actually bought into this painfully transparent scam and threw down upwards of 800 dollars per speaker. How can one resist a deal THAT good!? One poor soul actually bought one speaker for 500 dollars.

“These speakers are so fucking good that one speaker sounds like four! You don’t even really need two of em!”

Some people tried to work their way out of the situation.

“Sorry man I don’t have any cash on me.”

“No prob bud! Where do you bank at!? We’ll follow you!”

At which point I would take the wheel of the van and “bud” would jump into the victim’s car uninvited and we would drive to the bank to get some cash to buy some “great speakers”.

I later found out the reason for “bud’s” affinity for Hispanic folks.

“Mira Mira! Amigo!”

He was a bilingual con man.

We drove around all day forcing “great speakers” on unsuspecting victims for a little extra cash. Cause “Fuck my boss right!?”

We actually sold every single speaker in the van that day. Jeff and his pro apparently didn’t do so good. They had actually driven all the way to San Francisco in an attempt to unload the “extra speakers” but didn’t sell one.

Jeff and I left that afternoon and never came back. When we got home I took a shower to wash off the filth of shame. We sat down and smoked some grass which still wasn’t paying for itself. As we relaxed on the couch a news report came on the TV warning viewers of a group of con men who had been working all over California selling speakers that didn’t even work out of the back of vans.

Every now and then I’ll be walking out of a record store and I’ll get stopped by a couple of guys in a van.

“Hey bud! You like stereo equipment!?”

Perhaps its because I’m a masochist or maybe it’s the fact that I’m the sick sort of soul who sees the magic in the truly horrifying. Regardless there is something truly enchanting about having a shitty job. Aside from the discounts it’s the only thing that explains why I continue to work at a comic book store for minimum wage. The amazing and tragic specimens of humanity that walk through that door make it all worthwhile. One of my most hated and therefore favorite customers is the kind of character I couldn’t come up with on my own even with unlimited amounts of the finest drugs. Allow me to paint the picture for you. About five foot eight inches tall and two hundred eighty pounds. An oversized fanny pack clinging to the underside of his porcine breadbasket which seems to be perpetually wrapped tightly in a purple polo shirt which bears the war wounds of ultimate cheeseburgers of days gone by. Would you expect any less than greasy matted hair? I would assume not. However, allow me to up the anti; mutton chops. This addition baffles me every time I see his nauseating visage. Is this suppose some sort of hip garnish who’s intent is to convince you that you’re not eating uncooked pig intestine stuffed with Crisco? Its not working. His fingernails are unreasonably long. I can only assume the reason for the protractedness of his nails is to accommodate the accumulation of the crusted sewage that won’t fit in his fanny pack. Granted he is not a pretty man but it only gets better from there. He has a ritual. He comes in at the same time every day without fail. He walks directly to the new comic book rack and picks up the most recent Scooby Doo comic book or some comparable children’s title. Then its right over to the adult section where he carefully chooses very important titles like Sticky, Blowjob or Anal Intruders From Mars. It’s a horrifying and amazing juxtaposition. This is where our interaction begins which is just as ritualized as the rest of his weekly trip to the comic book store. I tell him how much he owes for his smut and children’s books and he gives me the money. I carefully drop the change into his palm with the intent of avoiding direct contact with his disgusting paw. Then even if I already have his comics in a bag and have them held out for him to snatch up and run off to mothers basement he says the same thing,

“I’ll take a bag. If you got one.”

Yes I have a bag. Its right here. Your comics are inside of it. Take it and go away.

People are magic and horrible. If you’re disgusted take a moment and let it wash over you’re pallet like a fine wine. There’s a reason Da Vinci liked to work in grotesques.