Confession of a Contract Killer

My eyes kept coming back to the food in his beard. It hung there, this big, greasy glob of something, and I couldn’t help but wonder what on earth it could be. The old man across from me kept talking, and with every word, the glob jiggled like an expert belly-dancer amongst the gray of beard.

Cheese? Some kind of soup maybe. Chowder? The plate in front of him was bare; no clues there.

“So you’ll do this favor for me?” I heard him say with the half of my brain that was listening. The other half worked overtime to figure out the mystery of the glimmering globule of leftovers. I nodded.

The man across the table from me was my father. I did business with him from time and time, and if it wasn’t for him, I probably wouldn’t have ever thought about my line of work, let alone gotten into it. I owe him since, after all, my work has made me a very rich man.

My father is a criminal. Big-time. He’s what Spider-Man would have referred to as a “kingpin.” Or so I would imagine. I don’t know exactly how far the old man has his hand in the criminal jar of New York’s underworld, but it’s far enough to be sticky.

Allow me to explain. I know enough to realize that he’s an important figure in the slimy underbelly of the city’s darker elements, but that’s about all I know. He tried to explain to me once what all he was into and how important he was, what rung he fit on the ladder of bigwig bad-guys and so on and so forth, but I kept zoning out and forgot everything he told me about five minutes after he finished.

I, on the other hand, am what you’d call a contract killer. I’m told who to kill, and I go out and kill this person. Then I am paid. I never see my employers face-to-face. My dear old dad takes care of all of that. He just slides me the folder with the name and photo and likewise important information to me, and I go out and eliminate the face on the photo and name on the paper. Pretty simple.

But my eyes kept coming back to that food in his beard.

If I could just figure out what it was. I figured that a few minutes to peruse my menu might be of some help.

“Do you mind?” I asked, motioning towards the menu. The old man stammered for a moment as I had interrupted him in the middle of a sentence, blinked twice as he regained his stature, and then nodded, the globule of food nodding along with him.

“Of course, of course, you must be starved,” Pop said. I thanked him, opened the menu, and scanned its contents. With a mental groan, I realized quickly enough that most of the items were in French. Being a strictly cheeseburger and fries kinda guy, the menu might as well have been written in Egyptian hieroglyphics. I’d need a Rosetta stone to sort through any of it.

“Not hungry,” I said and put the menu down.

Dad slid a manilla folder in my direction with wrinkly, dry hands, and the gaudy rings on his fingers shone bright in the atmospheric lighting of the restaurant. I wondered if someone had planned the lighting in the place for this specific purpose: to show off old men’s bling-bling.

“See what this will do for your appetite,” he said. He assumed that I had enjoyed killing, hungered for it, because I did it so well. Why not? I supposed that it was a logical assumption. But he was dead wrong.

I think that it’s easy to make lots of assumptions about something that you know little about or have never done, the assumptions being completely logical and also one-hundred percent incorrect.

I don’t understand why he felt it was necessary to make this assumption. Did he feel the need to understand me? Was this is a way of showing that he had some connection? That he “got” it? Why? I don’t pretend to have any inkling of what goes on in that cavernous brain of my father’s, so why would he feel the need to act as though he knew what was going on in my own?

Now in the movies, hired killers usually open up their manilla envelopes and sort through everything, documents, pictures, instructions, right then and there in the middle of a public restaurant. How stupid is that! Obviously, you can’t believe everything you see in the movies. I tucked the envelope into my jacket for later viewing.

I often wondered how many undercover agents were in the restaurant, watching us, dying to know just what the contents of these manilla envelopes my Dad passed to me contained. They probably thought it was just my weekly allowance and that I was the spoiled rich kid son of a corrupt mobster.

“Time frame?” I asked the old man. I wanted to follow up the question with, “And what the hell is that in your beard?” However, a man like my father has to be treated with a certain amount of respect.

Better to let him find and take care of the renegade glob of food on his own than embarrass him and face the wrath of his temperamental nature. My pop was a man who did not like his faults pointed out to him, and if and when he did happen to discover a problem, he liked to take care of it himself.

“Tonight,” the old man said and dipped his chin into his chest, looking at me with serious eyes. The glare he gave me let me know that this was a job that could not be fucked up. “Get it right, right now,” the look said.

“Then I better get going,” I replied, nodded at him, and took my leave of his esteemed presence. I wondered how long it was going to take him to notice the crap in his beard.

***

After some inventive driving to get rid of any possible police tails I might have on me, I parked in a darkened alley and opened the envelope my father had given me. The alley looked dangerous, but hell, I was dangerous too. I ripped open the top and dumped the contents into my lap.

Pictures of two people. A man and a woman. The man was a geeky looking bastard, wearing glasses and a three-piece suit that screamed Wall Street. This guy was my target.

No reason was given as to why he was to be sent knock knock knocking on heaven’s or more likely, hell’s door but no reason was ever given when I went out on hits. It didn’t matter, and I didn’t want to know. The only thing that mattered was the paycheck after the deed had been done.

The woman, on the other hand, was a stop-your-breath, drop-you-to-your-knees, drop-dead gorgeous looker. She had short, jet black hair and brown eyes so dark they looked as black as night.

I got the feeling from the expression in her photograph that she was as cold as ice a.k.a. my kind of bitch. My information told me that the woman would be with the man tonight in a certain hotel room at a certain location detailed in my instructions, but she was not to be killed.

I wondered who she could be. Was she a hooker? No, she appeared way too high class to be a hooker. Maybe his wife and probably the one who’d hired me to kill him. Why else would a probable witness be left alive unless she was the one paying me?

Whatever the case was, I didn’t question instructions.

My train of thought was interrupted by a tapping on the window. I looked up and saw an ape-like man with a giant handgun pointing at me through the glass. Dark, curly hair covered his knuckles.

He was a real scary-looking individual, but how was he to know I’d seen much, MUCH scarier guys, guys with chainsaws and twisted noses and sledgehammer fists, and hadn’t ever broken out in a single sweat? I sighed. It was going to be one of those kinds of nights. I knew that the alley had looked dangerous.

I rolled down the window and politely asked, “Can I help you?”

“Keys,” he barked.

I nodded, feigned fear with a shaky voice, begging him to just not hurt me, pulled my silencer from its position under the driver’s seat and shot the jackass in the face. It happened in a blur, and he collapsed like a worn sack of trampled shit into the street with a gasping gargle. Some fuckers never learn.

I started the ignition and drove towards the hotel that my target was apparently staying at, according to my source in the manilla envelope. I turned on the car radio, found the latest Britney Spears tune and sang along, my fingers drumming to the beat on the steering wheel. I find Britney Spears songs catchy. So sue me.

***

For such a rich looking dork, the hotel he was staying at was cheap. Cheap and sleazy from the looks of it. Perhaps this was how he got his kicks but whatever. I imagined that I’d find him and the smoking hot dame boinking their heads off in the hotel room. The hit was going to be a cakewalk.

What’s so appealing about cheap and sleazy, I wonder? Maybe rich and classy is too constraining, too restricted. You got to wear your suffocating neckties and suck in your guts and laugh at jokes that don’t make sense to anyone. But cheap and sleazy? Burp and fart and pick your nose and no one thinks the less of you.

Your rich and classy ladies think they’re doing you a favor by lying down on their backs and letting you thrust three or four times before popping your shot. But cheap and sleazy? They’ll let you stick it up their bums and tell you how much they like it when you cum on their fat titties.

Still, at least you’re pretty sure the rich and classy gals aren’t going to pass any STDs around like cake at a birthday party.

According to the details in my magical manilla envelope of death, the couple was on the second floor, room 207. I changed into a more casual and therefor, less noticeable outfit in the car, and I tucked my silencer into the waistband of my pants against my back, underneath my jacket and out of sight. It was showtime.

The guy running the desk at the hotel was a short, bald, and fat creature with pudgy little fingers that looked more like hot dogs than human digits. His thick glasses magnified his eyes to the size of dinner plates. I swear, that guy was probably more troll than he was man. I requested a room, and he complied, handing me a key with his sweaty palms. I thanked him and slipped into the elevator, knowing that a slob wearing coke-bottle glasses like that would never be able to give a credible description to authorities.

Anyway, I was wearing a long jacket that hid my body structure and lifts that made me taller than my true height. A baseball cap hid the majority of my hair. Take notes if you’re considering a career in contract killing.

I hopped out of the elevator on the second floor and made my way down the hallway to 207. The hallway was deserted as cheap and sleazy hotel hallways often are. No one ever wants to be caught in the hallway of a cheap and sleazy hotel, right?

I tried the doorknob. Unlocked. I assumed this was the doing of the sexy dark-haired woman, but I was somewhat disappointed. Slipping past locks unnoticed is one of the small joys of my job, but I figured “less work for me for the same amount of pay” and slunk into room 207 like the devil.

My assumption about the two boinking their heads off was correct. The noises I heard as soon as I passed through the entrance of the room clued me in right away. Squeaking bed springs and breathless groans and gasps. I closed the door silently behind me and paused in the shadows of the darkened room, mainly to allow my eyes to adjust.

As they did, I began to see two forms on the bed. The bed springs continued creaking and squeaking, and my target continued gasping and groaning as the dark-haired woman rode him like the Lone Ranger hot on the trail of some Mexican banditos. I stealthily slid my silencer out of the waistband of my trousers from behind me and felt its cool grip in my hand.

“Yeah, fuck me girl, fuck me like the slut you are!” he barked, raised and hand and yanked at the dark woman’s hair. She grunted and bucked on him like a wild stallion, her large breasts flapping like bags of sugar. I say bags of sugar because they looked oh so sweet. I hadn’t been able to tell how big they were from the photograph. I shook my head. This was no time for breast appraisal. I paused. Should I wait for them to finish? Let the guy blast his rocket off before I blasted his face with lead and really sent him into space?

“Fuck me, bitch! Fuck your brother like you mean it!” he ordered and slapped her with a loud crack of palm meeting cheek. Ah, so the pieces all fell into place. This was why he had to take such a hot looking babe to a cheap and sleazy hotel. She was his sister. What kind of a sick, perverted Wall Street freak snuck around with his sister? I had no sympathy for the man now, especially knowing that it was most likely his sister that had set this hit on him anyway.

I walked up to the bed, the silencer in my hand, approaching the incest loving nerd with the barrel of my gun pointed between his eyes. His eyes were clenched shut, so he did not see me approach. His sister, on the other hand, happened to get a look at me as I stepped out of the shadows. Her cheek still glowed red from the slap he had given her. I paused. I was taking a big chance in thinking that she knew what I was doing there. Thankfully, she didn’t look surprised to see me but just humped him harder and gave me a curt nod.

“Do it,” she moaned. Mr. Wall Street Sister Banger thought that she was talking to him.

“Yeah, baby, I know you love it,” he said, grinning his fool’s grin. I put the silencer against his forehead and pulled the trigger. His body convulsed with a huge shudder, and the dark-haired woman gasped as the man writhed in his death dance, his penis still buried to the hilt inside of her.

“Oh shit, cumming!” she cried, held a fist to her mouth as she bucked like a wild stallion again, and then the dead man went still under her, his life leaking out the back of his skull and onto the hotel pillow in a sticky puddle that some poor maid would hate cleaning up the next day.

She collapsed on the bed next to her dead lover, brother, and man she had murdered by my hand with a shivery gasp. I felt a mixture of disgust and attraction at the woman who sprawled out on the mattress next to her brother’s corpse. She was one fucked up broad.

“Hell of a way to get off,” I said in a low voice.

“If you only knew,” she replied. She sat up and pointed across the room. A purse sat on a shoddy looking dresser. Normally I would have left the room in a hell of a hurry, considering a man I’d killed would soon be rotting in it, but this woman had me intrigued.

“Hand me a cigarette out of my purse, will ya?” she said. I walked across the room and obliged. I found a pack of smokes under a bundle of lipstick and hair brushes and typical woman’s crap and pulled it out. I handed her one and pulled out my lighter from my jacket pocket. She put the smoke in between her lips and waited for me to light it before puffing out a thick cloud and sighing loudly.

“He was my brother, ya know.”

“That why you wanted him dead? Because he fucked you?” I said, watching the end of her cigarette burn a bright red in the dark as she inhaled.

“Nope. Money. In the end, it’s always money,” she sighed, another cloud issuing from her lips. I didn’t ask her to go into details, and to be quite frank, I didn’t care to know the details. Such things were always complicated and boring stories that simply took the mystery out of the things better left unknown.

A silence permeated the air along with the drifting smoke, and the dark haired woman said, “So, do I have to pay you extra to fuck me?”

I looked over her nude and perfect body in the darkness, a body that had just gotten off on her dying brother and still wanted more. The woman was as cold as ice. Colder probably. I had to admit it turned me on, and I felt a bulge begin to form in the crotch of my trousers. Still, better to play it cool with such a frozen hearted vixen.

“I’m not a whore. I don’t get paid for sex, and I definitely don’t have sex with anyone in my immediate family,” I retorted in my low hitman voice. It was the voice I used whenever I spoke to anyone on a job. If I were to speak to this woman the next day on the phone in my usual voice, she’d have no idea who I was. I also do some great impressions. You should hear my George W. Bush; it’s dead on.

“Well, friend, I’m not in your immediate family, and I still wanna fuck,” she blew another cloud of smoke and stubbed her cigarette out on the nightstand. I made no reply.

She crept off the bed, the springs bouncing slightly as she moved, and crawled towards me on her hands and knees along the hotel room floor like a predatory cat, her white teeth penetrating the shadows as she grinned. All I could really make out from her silhouette approaching me was a mouth that looked hungry and ready to gobble me up. I just stood there, doing nothing.

She came to a stop in front of me, and her hands began to run up my legs, rubbing my thighs through my pants. Her face was parallel to my crotch as she bent on her knees, and I got a better look at her. A devilish glint sparkled in her oily black eyes. Her black hair reflected the soft moonlight streaming through the window with a dull glow. Her features were exotic and lovely.

She was breathtakingly beautiful, and I cursed God for setting such a beast on Earth to seduce and manipulate men for anything she so desired. I had to have her, but I still played it cool. Better to not let her think she had complete control.

I was very aware of the dead man on the bed, but he seemed to not matter much anymore.

Her hands worked their way to my belt. She unfastened it as I let my jacket slip to the floor, falling with a soft rustle. I still held my silencer in my hand and had no plans of putting it anywhere until I was sure that my dark haired demon couldn’t get her seductively evil hands on it. She unbuttoned my trousers and slowly unzipped me with slender fingers. My pants dropped to my ankles. She slipped her fingers into the waistband of my boxers, and those dropped to my ankles a moment later.

My erect penis, now unconstrained by clothing, sprung up as if desperate for attention. The dark haired woman looked up at me with her sparkling inky eyes and gave a sly grin.

“Very nice,” she purred and slipped her red lipsticked lips over my throbbing erection. I gnashed my teeth together but did my best to not let the cold expression on my face change. Then again, it didn’t matter what the expression on my face looked like because my cock told the story for me: I wanted this woman with every last molecule, proton, electron and neutron in my body.

She slipped my cock deep into her throat and then out of her mouth, a thread of saliva trailing and dribbling to her chin, her tongue flicking out of her lips like a snake’s tongue and wetting me with delicious licks, and then she wrapped one of her hands around me and stroked me achingly slowly into her mouth. Her other hand drifted up and caressed my balls with soft touches.

The woman was a master. Tingles of pleasure coursed through my body, igniting nerve endings and senses that I had never before realized existed. Still holding my silencer, I allowed my other hand to glide through the darkness and plunged it into the tangle of her black hair, her even blacker eyes still locked on my own as she guided my cock into her talented mouth.

Her hands moved to my ass, and she began to force me deeper and harder down her throat. I got the hint: she wanted me to fuck her face. I began to thrust myself into her with swift strokes, holding her head tight so she couldn’t escape if she wanted to. Perhaps the cheap and sleazy hotel as well as her brother’s dead corpse had inspired this woman to take her slut-hood to the next level and I was more than happy to comply, but if she were to change her mind, it would be too late. At the moment, she was at my mercy.

“MMMMM.” She whirred under me as I thrust, taking the length of my cock so deep I could feel my balls slapping against her chin as I pumped my hips forward.

I glanced over at the bed. Mr. Wall Street Sister Banger glared up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes, a hole in his forehead, his mouth open in a silent and eternal yawn while I fucked his sister’s face as hard as I possibly could.