It's said everyone meets their match.
In the Gutter, that fact is as comforting as a big old plate of liver and onions.
In the Gutter, that fact is as comforting as a big old plate of liver and onions.
Respect by Peter W. J. Hayes
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I’ve always believed two things. First, no matter who you
are, futility and boredom are the largest parts of your life. It’s a given.
Second, only you can figure out what makes you happy. Politicians will promise
a better world for all of us, but that’s garbage. Happiness is up to you. Then
you have to dedicate yourself to it: make it your life’s work. It’s the only way
to survive all that futility and boredom.
Me, I learned in Iraq that what makes me happy is killing
people.
Granted, those were bad guys. Well, so we were told. And the
politicians wouldn’t lie about Iraq, would they? But those bad guys, I wonder
what their mothers and wives thought about them.
Just saying.
So, I got dedicated. And for the last five years I’ve been
picking my moments and making myself happy. It’s fun. I go new places, I see
new things. I meet new people. Sure, some of them are dead right after I meet
them, but I still meet them.
Like tonight.
I’m in Pittsburgh. It’s 3:30 a.m. and I’m sitting in a deserted
downtown diner eating a half decent plate of eggs and kielbasa hash. I’m
feeling good. Not happy yet, but that’s coming. Because my next target just
refilled my coffee mug and sashayed toward the kitchen, her polyester pants
making a swishing sound where her thighs rub together.
But she does have me confused.
You have to understand, I do this for a living. I have
rules. No advertising on craigslist or backpage. Lots of research on the
target. Nobody too high profile. Mostly I target jerk coworkers, spouses and
parents taking too long to die. That’s my niche.
I check my watch. 3:45. Go time. The deal is this: the
husband found me and he’s the cook. He plans to step outside at 3:46 and stand
under the back door security camera smoking a cigarette. I go to the register
and when the angel comes to ring me out I drop her. There’s a security camera
above the register. He comes in a couple of minutes later, finds her, calls the
cops. Cops will have tape of him outside smoking on the same time stamp I drop
his wife. Although, thanks to a Steelers cap and the camera angle, they won’t
know it’s me.
It’s tight.
I stand up and carry the check to the register, glancing
into the kitchen through the pass-through. No sign of the cook. The angel steps
behind the register. I look into her blue eyes and reach under my hoodie for my
SIG. Her eyes go wide and round.
“You move you’re dead.” Hard steel tickles the back of my neck.
I freeze. I know the voice. It’s the husband. The cook. He
shuffles around and into my peripheral vision.
“You okay, babe?” he asks the angel.
She nods.
“OK,” he says. “I promised I’d get someone for you. It’s
what you want, right?”
“It is,” she whispers. She raises a snub-nosed .38 from a
shelf under the register and points it at my forehead. Licks her parted lips as
a flush rises to her cheekbones.
He shuffles a few feet away. “Camera’s off. Go for it.”
A slight tremor runs through her body. “Oh,” she says, and
it’s more of a moan. “I’m so hot already. You gotta do me before the cops get
here.”
She’s saying it to him.
“Yeah, babe,” he whispers back, all throaty.
Her trigger finger tightens.
You know, if crazy sex makes you happy, then dammit, I have
to respect that.
