Poison Darts and Laced Tarts

Cooking plus assassination is harmful for one's health.

Previously, I've shared that I have tried to kill my husband, but I realized that it was not only dangerous, but also impossible. I love the man too much, and no matter what I do, I can never lay a finger on him.

 

"Honey, don't touch that," I warned. There were tarts on the table, laced with poision. "It's for a coworker. She's been sick lately." When I said coworker, I meant target. When I said she's been sick, I meant she's been marked for annihilation.

 

The great thing about my job (if there's ever such a good thing as killing for a living) is that my work hours are very flexible, meaning I can choose to eliminate a target any time of the day on any day of the week that The Employer has given me.

 

My husband sometimes gets in the way whenever he decides that it's such a nice day outside and it's time for some quality time together. Sometimes he likes to play darts with me for a while, and that's where I got the idea of poison darts.

 

Now you say, 'Oh that's original' with sarcasm, but I say, hell, you don't assassinate like I do. And when I kill, it's quick, clean and almost painless. Of course, I've never tried killing myself before, but based on their faces, I say they've died a relatively peaceful death.

 

I've stopped using knives lately, so I can say for sure that their deaths weren't too cruel. Still, I miss the gleaming edges of the blades and the sleek silver shape. I miss the scent of blood as they spill ever so slowly, a dripping.

 

Still, I need to content myself with poison for the mean time, till I can control myself and not cut my victims to pieces. I told you in my previous chapter that this was an addiction. It still is. It will never go away.

 

Now, I should be delivering my tarts.