Killer's Evolution

Just a little somethin somethin. It's been too long.

I was lost. Every direction diverted unto different destinations than what had been indicated. All of life was aswirl, and I succumbed to the dizzy, senseless wanderings. The land moved when I sat, and stayed when I ran. I fed upon nothing, like a leech of the void; I starved upon much, like a black hole. With the passage of thought flew the whimsy of seasons, yet winter would last a decade and a hop.

Surely one could be forgiven a developing insanity through such circumstances. Lost is worse than dying. Lost is worse than dead. Lost is the lack of...

I must apologize. That maelstrom never ends. Now, that's not why I kill, mind. I do so because it's fun. And this isn't about the killings themselves. This lovely tale is about growth, an uplifting story of personal development. Want gory details, go read a Stephen King novel. I'm a killer, not a murder porn freak.

Anyways, there I was, lost and all that depressing crap up there. Sure, it was fun to strangle a hobo or gut a prostitute or, if I was lucky, have a mugging victim put up a fight so I could slash and stab and cut and filet and slice and... ahem, good times.

The catalyst for my evolution was one of those happy muggings. Unbeknownst to me, my victim was a bookie who owed a certain party money. Now, while I was cutting off fingertips, he started babbling on and on about a deal with Fabio or Fernando or some s**t. I didn't know what to make of it, until a car pulled up to the end of the alley. Five gentlemen in suits stepped out, and guns were drawn. Shouting. There was lots of shouting, mostly from my victim. Once I realized the situation, I gave them what he'd told me. Hell, I let them prod for more, so long as they left me enough to have fun with.

When all was said and done, I found myself employed as an interrogator. The sense of direction was liberating. I now had a focus for my creativity. There was an end purpose. I threw myself in with abandon. I was given questions, and I sought answers. The source was more sacred than any tome. The writ was blood, pain the pen. Because of my stark enjoyment and effort, I was led to believe that I was protected. Favored, even.

There came a time when a certain shooter gained the suits's collective attention. At first, I didn't mind. He was a good assassin. Clean. Quick. Quiet. Cold as ice, too. I could appreciate his work, but to be honest his preference for firearms was blue-collar. What I do has finesse and flair.

They gave him one of my jobs. What little secrets he garnered were just enough to give the suits what they wanted. In half the time he took I could have had enough to plan a multifamily gang war. He got paid my rate.

Hey now, I did not go overboard. Rude of you to assume so. I simply asked a lieutenant about it, over some toes, a few fingers, an ear, and a (rather tasty) chunk of his nose. I was promised fatter checks, so I redoubled my efforts. My productivity was better than before. I'm a killer, not a socialist. More pay means better work. I could, and did, have nuns and priests confessing to orgies.

Eventually, the work slowed. I figured that people had gotten good and intimidated by our organization after rumors of my expertise. That was, until Mr. Hot Shot Assassin started bragging about how many of my jobs he was doing. Couldn't do anything then, but a chance soon came. Someone thought it'd be funny to set us on the hunt for the same guy. I took the target, interrogated while I maneuvered to isolate the other killer, and, since I had my Intel and the bait had outlived its use, sliced his throat.

Words were exchanged. Shots were fired, by him. Bullets were taken, by the walls and myself. He was done after I was in slicing range. Now THAT was an exhilarating experience. It lasted all of a minute, in a glorious dance of pain, violence, and streams of blood. I was shot three times, twice in the shoulder and a glance off the kneecap. He was turned into ribbon candy. A stop by the guy's personal armament and some smartly placed explosives, and I officially cut ties with the suits, and maybe beheaded the organization by blowing up the leadership.

Now the lack of direction is open, liberating. All sorts need killing, and professionals are so much fun! Oh, the methods I can develop! I could do anything. I could kill anything. Hell, I could try the vigilante s**t, might even be fun. Besides, nobody looks for killers when they disappear.

Author's Note

I really rather enjoyed writing this character. If more ideas for him come, we'll see where this goes.

Reviews

[Amber Lily]

This was a great read! The style of the narrative kept it very interesting, who doesn't love a killer with a sense of humor? It's always strange to see when a story is self aware, I think you did a good job with it though. It didn't feel like it broke the fourth wall too much. I could see a lot of ideas for a book building off of this character. :)

[John Stussy]

I'm glad you enjoyed the story, thanks for the review! If everything at work calms down I might get the chance to write more about this character.

[Jonathan CuzBubbawicz]

I really enjoy the way you can make the words become a true emotion the reader feels. I hope you do continue this tale.

[John Stussy]

Thank you. I currently have a bit of a block with writing at the moment, and I'm terrible with continuing my stories. I'm goping to give this character more life though for sure.

[Taylor]

Chilling. You have managed to create a character with a consistent voice. A glimpse into a pathological mind. Are you a killer in plain sight? If not, well done; I was almost afraid to initiate any contact (LOL).

[John Stussy]

Why thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed the character. Got a couple beat ideas for him. And no worries, I haven't stabbed anyone, yet.

[Taylor]

Whew! I'm relieved.