Flicking the cigarette into the local gutter, I tightened my jacket around my mid-section. The embers of the remainder of the tobacco stick were quickly snuffed out in the damp darkness of the corner where I've chosen my waiting spot. I watched as my mark came out of the club she'd been in for the past nine hours. How anyone could stick to a joint playing that terrible dance shit I'll never know; and what's worse is perhaps the club's name: the Pink Possum. Not only was Opossum spelled wrong, but it absolutely reeked of an all female bar, one of those places where most guys aren't allowed, and even if they were there wasn't much there to find.
Not that I had an issue with them personally, I just had issues myself. The pink neon sign made me sick, casting it's glow about the area like a lighthouse would light up a harbour in a storm. I scowled. The Music made me sick. The people and the stink made me sick, even in the slight down pour. I watched as the mark slowly felt her way across the side of the Pink Possum, clearly drunk. Or stoned. I would bet money on a little bit of both. Regardless, her lavish and 'free' lifestyle gathered the scorn of her husband after he was 'diagnosed'. That's about too much info. Way too much than I would have ever needed.
All I ever want to know is if I'll be paid in full, and my clients know the danger of failing to do so. It was my only concern. I never worked with anyone, not since '83 when a client of a more 'businessman-like' persona decided to slink his two-bit cousin with me. Thought he'd weasel out of paying me by having me killed when the job was finished. I doubt they'd ever find what was left of him. She lost a shoe. Poor planning, that. I popped my neck and cracked my fingers, stretching for possibly nothing. No fight or danger from killing a drunk doped up on only gods know what else.
I sighed and reached inside my jacket and retrieved my 10mm Bren Ten from its resting place, and fastened the suppressor I had fashioned personally over a period of 4 hours on a previous day. The thing about making quieting tools is that the more you make them, the faster you can complete them. I had stores of them. The Bren Ten made a satisfying noise as the suppressor screwed on, sounds like music to me. Sounds like money to be made. She doubled over and vomited on the sidewalk. Vile. Disgusting. At 2:00 in the morning, there isn't anyone or anything that would care to be up and about except the most brazen of characters. I crossed the street. Slowly, even in deserted places people notice running people. Bad to be noted as a runner.
She was still clutching the wall of the club even as I strolled behind here. I walked at a pace that was painfully slow. Her crawl was even more so. I shook my head. I had gotten used to killing important people. Spies. Assassins. Murderers. Officials. I was reduced to what I called a 'farming' job. Something so simple as killing cattle. She didn't even glance my way as I walked alongside her. Only when I got in her way did she even take notice, and even then I doubt it was much more than a flicker of understanding in that drug addled brain. She looked up and smiled at me. Smiled. At me. I scowled in disgust and leveled the Bren Ten at her face. She couldn't even comprehend the gravity of what was happening. She looked at me. Those vacant cow eyes. Those stupid sheep eyes. Those fucking pig eyes. I've had enough displeasure for one day and my finger tightened on the trigger.