I liked the Indian More

It's about.. well, i guess you'll just have to read it, i can't really say anything without giving it away.

 A Short Story

By Micah Snow

 

 

         One shot, dead. That’s my job. I take a crosshair, and end a life. I don’t remember how I got into the business, maybe it paid well, or I enjoyed it. They say in America everything is better, I decided to try it out; it doesn’t seem that much different, but that’s me. It doesn’t matter though, wherever I go, my job is the same. One shot, dead. But, this job is different.

     They say that New York is the best, but I don’t know, I’m taking a cab. Taxis are normal, so how is New York better then others? It isn’t as sandy though, I am used to the heat. My driver is Mexican, I wonder if he is cussed at like me. Americans like to hate, especially my stereotype. Maybe that’s why I kill. The car is stopping.

     “This your stop”

     “Yes, thank you””

     I don’t know if this is my stop, maybe it is. But I wait for the phone call to start this job, so who knows where I have to be. I just need my bag to do my jobs. And I have my bag. This job is special, I need it to work, nothing wrong.

     My phone is ringing, but I don’t like it. When I got off the plane, the guy gave me a plan. He said the ring was good, but it’s noisy.

     “Hello,” I answer.”

     The voice tells me where, and when.

      “Thank you Sir.”

     I try to hang up, but my phone is stupid, it doesn’t turn off easily. I wish things were simple, like pulling a trigger. Only in time, everything will be simple, I tell myself.

     Back in a cab, but this one is musty. The driver is Indian, I liked the Mexican more; but does it matter? The windows don’t look very clean, with smudges from last riders hand. I like the things you grab when you go fast, but there is none, and the Indian is zippy. I decided to sit behind him, and he is tall, I have no leg room. I really don’t like this man. We stop, this is it, this is where I complete everything.

     The walk up the stairs is the longest of my life, slowly I trek up the stairs, one by one, I am closer to nirvana. I pick the door, and see the city through the windows, as I walk through. Just one last shot, and I will be complete.

     I look down upon the square, people as dots from the distance. Now, in a new vision, I see everyone’s faces, zoomed and clear. All I have to do is wait. There is once again that noise from my pocket.

     “He’s almost there, he’ll be writing in a book by the fountain, be ready.”

     “I am more then ready, thank you Sir.”

     I set down my plastic talker, starting to get very anxious; only seconds now. I see him, sitting, small and bald. Not as I expected, I would think that a man that killed my son, would be bigger, but not this one.

     I put my dot over his head, and I think of revenge. I pull the trigger, he falls, and everything is complete. People crowd around him, but I don’t care, everything is done, everything is simple.

     I hail a cab, this one is very clean, I like it. The driver is bald, and has a tattoo on his cheek. He looks at me funny. I liked the Indian more.

Author's Note

It's actually a short story, but they didn't have a category for that.. Also any grammar problems, dialogue, etc, please help with. That would be awesome, thanks :-)