My name is Jason Smith. I’m a hitman. And no, it is not my real name.
Over the past ten years a number of the targets or marks have given me enjoyment. Now I know this sounds harsh or even callous, but some make it so easy. Sometimes they do part, if not all, of the job for me. Most of the people I’ve hit have been nasty types. The kind society is better off without, so your sympathy for them isn’t warranted. These are the scum of the earth, the gum on your shoe, the dregs. et the comedy of errors and last plea offerings which have and often occur, are my source of amusement.
Some criminals shouldn’t be criminals. They either don’t have the brains or lack the flair for the life. Many really don’t have the balls. Some have two left feet, which has enabled my job to run smoother on occasions. These are the easy money.
The first year or so ran as it would for the unseasoned, a newbie and the mistakes were for the most part mine. Getting brain matter or blood on your clothes and shoes became expensive so I discovered clean ways to dispense my own style of justice. One time I meant to shoot the mark in the chest, but his cat sent my allergies into a frenzy. A sneezing fit ensured his brains redecorated the walls. I don’t like leaving mess it grates on my need for cleanliness. If I’m going to hell, I could be at least tidy when I arrive.
As time passed I improved and getting in and out, undetected, clean and without too much fuss became relatively easy. On a few occasions things didn’t quite go as planned.
The first was Joey ‘Scarface’ DeMarco. Most of these lowlife’s nicknames were as unoriginal as their crimes. Joey was a pimp, a drug kingpin and all in all a nasty piece of work. The family of a young girl he hooked on drugs and then sold on the street wanted the retribution for her death, one the courts didn’t offer. Scum such as Joey may not be able to fight their way out of a paper bag, but they could buy their way out of anything. One on one they weren’t so tough.
After watching for the usual time, I determined when Joey would be alone. Killing one person per job also ensures a smoother run. Usually. The scumbag sat behind his desk in the office in the rear of one of his S&M clubs. Now I could just walk up silent, stand behind him and shoot him where he sat but where would the fun be in that.
“Evening, Scarface,” I said as came to stand with stealth in front of his desk.
“Who the fuck are you? How did you get in here?” Original standard lines.
At this point I could do the usual and say nothing but I was spoiling for a fight. My day had been filled with petty annoyances such as stepping in dog shit and my favourite hooker coming down with a bout of crabs. I was horny and annoyed.
“What does it look like?” I said my silenced gun aimed at his head.
“What the hell? Who are you?”
Joey stood in a flash, flinging his chair against the wall behind him. This is going to be interesting, I thought as he came around the desk. He’s showing some balls. His urgency to come at me, to do only he knew what, caused his feet to catch the edge of the desk. Down he came, hard. His face caught the edge of the desk, leaving his eye as a new desk ornament. I wouldn’t have thought it possible if I hadn’t witnessed if for myself. He slumped to the floor in a heap, blood seeping from the empty socket. He lay as still as night. I bent down to check his pulse and found nothing. I grinned. He’d done my job for me, one less soul to repent. To this day I’m still unaware of exactly how one can lose their eye and life from one swift crack to the head on a table. The mind boggles.
The next crazy occurrence didn’t happen for some months and this still brings forth a cackle every time I think of it. I remember the event but not his name, Frank something or other. This one hid in the basement, underneath the bar he used as a legitimate front, like the rat that he was. He tried to negotiate, threw money and girls at me. The thrill of popping someone gave me more satisfaction then money or hookers ever could so he wasted his time.
I’ve been offered many different bribes from different scum over the years, as they begged for their lives. I remember one in particular, Michael Scalzi, he offered me his sister. He even showed me her picture which he kept framed on his desk. A face only a mother could love as they say. The crazy thing was he was deadly serious and must have thought I was one desperate man to take on that wildebeest. His life didn’t mean much to him obviously, if that was all he had to save it. Even if he offered me a beauty queen, I don’t think I would have considered sparing him.
Anyway, back to Frank. He approached me too, trying to talk me round. As I went to shoot him, he grabbed the gun. The round took off two or it could have been three of his fingers. Sent them clean over his shoulder to create a finger painting on the wall behind him. Frankie boy stared at his hand in surprise, as though he couldn’t believe I’d shot them off. He was lucky to still be alive. I laughed at his sincere horror at losing his fingers. Dumb arse was about to lose more than that.
“You shot off my fingers,” he yelled, surprise in his voice.
“You put your hand in the way.”
“Where did they go? I have to find them, so they can be put back on.” Was he serious? I laughed again.
The second shot silenced further conversation. Fingerless Frank still held shock in his lifeless eyes, unbelievable.
Then there was this other wise guy, thought he was Billy the Kid or Clint Eastwood in some western movie. When he pulled his gun, he decided to show off. He spun it round and round on his finger like the cowboys do. He did it a few times to prove what a hot shot he was until it blew up in his face, literally. I needed to buy a new jacket that day.
It had been almost a year since I’ve had an incident. Suffice to say I have ensured I used the stealthy approach after the last event. Though it saved my soul a little when they took themselves out, it wasn’t always the cleaner option.
As I sit now in my local haunt, thinking back over strange and amusing events, over a cup of black coffee and eggs over easy, which in a strange way remind me of Scarface’s popped eyeball, I wonder about putting my stories down on paper, bringing out a collection of amusing hits.
The waitress was pouring me another cup of coffee when four unkempt youths wondered in. Their eyes appeared watchful and wary as they approached the counter. These clowns were up to something, I could see it in their desperation. Each pulled a gun from the front of their pants, concealed by jackets as they entered. A wry grin touched my lips as I thought about how many guys have become dickless carrying guns in the front. Amateurs imitating bad guys from the TV and movies. This was going to be interesting. I debated over what to do. A clunk from behind me diverted my attention for a split second as I watched a young boy’s toy robot bounce across the floor. I turned back to the youths and waiting to see what they planned to do. I pulled my gun from its holster and held it low, ready.
“Empty the register,” the tall youth in the front demanded. He shoved a bag towards the girl manning the counter.
The other three stood back and held their guns aloft. They swung from side to side ensuring their menacing of the innocent patrons was complete. While the girl filled the bag, I debated again. I could allow them to take the money and leave. No-one would get hurt and they would be on their way. The killer in me couldn’t resist.
The one who I determined to be the leader turned to the others and asked them to collect valuables from the customers. This was my cue.
“How about you take your bag and leave?” I said.
I lifted my weapon so they could see it. They all turned in my direction, the tall leader stepped forward and the others staggered behind.
“Who the fuck are you?” Why did everyone ask me this?
“It doesn’t matter. Just take the bag and leave.”
“He’s got a gun,” one of the others said. Clever guy this one. His hands shook and his finger rest dangerously close to the trigger.
“No shit,” the leader replied.
The first thing I did when I heard the shot was wait for the sting, but it didn’t come. I flashed my eyes down and spotted no bullet wounds.
“You fuckin’ shot my brother,” one of them yelled.
Sure enough, lying in a bloody pool was one of the youths. Shaky shot him. One of them rushed forward and dropped to his knees.
“You killed him,” he cried at Shaky.
He lifted his weapon and fired at Shaky. As he went down his gun discharged, and this time took down the leader.
I shook my head in disbelief. Were there any competent criminals?
The remaining thief still knelt by his dying brother. The leader heaved and tried to speak. His armed hand now shook as he lifted his gun. I couldn’t move as I watched the events unfold. A final shot sounded. The leader with his last breaths took out the last of them. These young, inexperienced, gun in front of pants adolescents just saved me from exposing myself, from having to do what they just did to each other. I’d seen some crazy shit in my time but never had I seen such a botched-up robbery, such careless gun toting behaviour. This was more unbelievable then the dude who accidently shot off his own face.
I heard cop sirens in the distance and knew this was my cue to leave. Not just the cafe but this life. This was a sign. It was time to write all this hilarity down. The stories were that unbelievable that no-one would ever consider them real. Amateurs.
I shook my head as I walked past the lifeless bodies and out the cafe towards my new life.