The Hitman

These days, I tell ya, murder ain't what it used to be. It used to be, in my business that is, that when a fella was giving you trouble, you got eliminated him like you would eat a hefty serving of Mama Joanna's famed potato salad: loudly and rapturously. But those days are past. Now, if you wanna eliminate some worthless thug, you gotta do it like you would eat a perfectly good slice of pizza that's on the top of the garbage: discreetly and when no one was looking. These days it wasn't even safe to murder someone yourself. You have to hire someone to do the murdering for you! I don't make the rules, and I usually don't even play by 'em. But in this case, I ain't got much of a choice.

That's where Brett comes in. Well, we call him "B," because there's another Brett and I knew him first, so he kinda had claims on that name. B, though, is the only person I trust with something as important as murdering. So when time came for me to put a hit out on Neil "Boots" Armstrong, I called up B. We decided to meet at the usual spot: a warehouse near the docks.

I...well, you don't need to know my name. Just know this: I am the most powerful man in America. You think that sonuvabitch you elected as President holds the title? Don't be naive, Johnny. I run the show 'round this country. The red, white, and blue answer to me. No one fucks with me. No one. Neil "Boots" Armstrong thought he could. Thought he could fuck my virile young wife and that I'd never put the pieces together. Well, he didn't know who he was messin' with. I found his spacesuit, covered in their sexual fluids, in the washing machine. Slipped up, spaceboy. And now he was gonna pay the price. The storm that I would create was gonna descend upon him. He was gonna learn why I was who I was and why he was nothin' but a grease stain on the side of the road.


"The fuck you want, cocksucker?" inquired B, taking off his sunglasses that he wore regardless of the time of day, and handing off his jacket to one of my petty goon-esque minions.

"Hey B, I wanted -" I began.

"I told you to never fuckin' call me that, all right, you greasy faggot? As a matter of fact, you shouldn't ever be addressing me by my name, you dirty fuckin' numbskull."

"Listen B - I mean...you! - I got someone I need whackified, if you know what I mean..."

"Well no fuckin' duh."

I slid a picture of Boots across the table to B.

"This fuckin' old shit? Are you fuckin' wasting my valuable time with this? This old fart'll be dead in six months. You fuckin' dumbass."

"You will be handsomely rewarded," I added, opening the large metallic case that lay on the table in front of the two of us. It was filled with gold dubloons and diamonds. The whole shpeel would probably retail at around $15 million US. B was worth every penny.

"Okay, Mr. Fuckhead. I'm listenin'. Who the fuck is this guy and what the fuck did he do to you? Did he not invite you to his fuckin' slumber party or some shit? Did he break your favorite Barbie's head off?"

"It's Boots, B - I mean, you! Jesus, I'm sorry, bud - and he fucked my wife. He fucked my wife and now-"

"Yeah, yeah, I get the fuckin' picture. He'll be dead in two days. I'll just be taking this case with me."

"Pleasure doin' business with you!" I added as B was walking out into the sunset.

B didn't say anything back. He didn't need to. He was a pro. He was also giving me the finger, and probably assumed that took care of the need to respond with words. B...he was the man, when you wanted it done fast and right.