|The Rain Is Just the Angels Weeping
||[Jan. 6th, 2007|04:22 am]
In my right hand there is a pistol. A marvel of art and function. It is curved like a lover's body snuggly resting against me. It is the tool of my trade. I am a killer. Most people don't understand the nuance of being a killer. They want it to be about a lack of morality or a lack of soul. They want it to be the overcoming your natural impulses and following through with acts and deeds that are unjustifiable. But it is a skill. Just like any skill. It requires hard work to maintain your edge. There are always up and coming hotshots who want to take you down. But in this business, there is no walking away, and there's no turning it down. Tonight I am following a young woman who saw the wrong thing. Unfortunately for her, she doesn't even know what this thing was. Her life is forfeit because she was a few minutes late or early, because she turned left instead of right, because she took a cab or chose to walk. For whatever reason, this is her last night. And I am the last thing she will ever see.|
*This is a work of fiction, please do not be afraid that I am hunting you down. I am not. Even if it seems like I am. I'm not. Even if I follow you around. I am not going to hurt you, or anyone else.