Cold Blooded
By Fleggle
Morals…What are morals?
Are they what lets us differentiate between right and wrong?
Are they intangible laws governing our actions?
To me, they are none of those; morals just get in the way… especially in my line of work, however now I’m questioning my entire philosophy all because of one person…
It was a cold December morn. The sun lay low in the misty sky, resting on the horizon. Snow drifted down from the heavens, glistening as it fell. I had just finished another hit for which I was paid substantially by my client, a narcissistic scumbag of a politician. Despite what people said, desire for wealth did not drive me, nor did reputation. I don’t know what drove me to slaughter people; I just felt I had a duty to fulfil.
The sun glared in my eyes, practically blinding me. Slipping on my sun glasses and sauntered down the path, scheduled to meet a new client in a quaint, little pub named “The Tortoise and the Hare”.
Inside the pub there was a putrid stench of sweat and smoke, the customers hunched over the tables in a sloth like manner. I scanned each nook and cranny for my client, but he was nowhere to be found. With time to kill, I headed to the bar – a tall, cool pint was just what I needed. The barman was a gruff fellow, his big belly bulging over his trousers. His accent was a slurred colloquial tongue, hardly intelligible.
As I was waiting for my drink, I noticed a woman, of striking complexion, enter the tavern, her mahogany hair swaying gently in the wind. I was taken aback by her radiance, she warmed my icy heart. “Excuse me,” I called to her; “…but please could I have your name?”
“Hi there, I ‘m Julie, now what do you go by?” she inquired; her voice was that of an angel.
“I don’t really have a name; most people just call me ‘thirteen’.”
“That is indeed an unlucky name. How enigmatic. You’ve piqued my curiosity, lets see if I can’t figure you out,” words can’t express the joy I felt at that moment.
We conversed well into the afternoon, becoming quite well acquainted with each other, when finally she whispered deep into my ear: “Goodbye, ‘L’, may we meet again.”
“I’ll wait for you,” I replied. She gave me a wink and left the pub. I felt lonely. I looked around for someone, anyone to talk with: there was not a soul in sight. As I was leaving the tavern, a man approached me. He was tall and well-built, but also surprisingly well dressed (at first I had assumed he was nothing more than hired help). “Ahh. Good evening Mr 13. I believe we talked about a job on the phone?” the gentleman was my client. The client that I had been waiting for all day! However, as he was a customer I bit my tongue and greeted him graciously.
“Ah yes, Mr. McKai. Who will I be disposing of then?” Usually clients tell me immediately who it is they want ‘erased’, though not him he said: “I shall send you a photograph when the time comes. For now, make sure you are at Bellé-View courthouse tomorrow at precisely 10:30am and that you have a mobile phone close at hand; my trial is scheduled for then and I can’t have the chief witness’ testimony incriminating me!” His eyes were very intense as they gazed upon me; he was quaking with rage.
“I don’t care why you need the job, all I care about is my fee,” I replied sternly.
“You will be paid upon completion of the task. Good night.” He stormed out the door.
10:20am. I was atop a large building opposite the courthouse. The wind was blisteringly cold. The sun was hidden behind ominous clouds. My phone began to vibrate. It was a text from Mr. McKai, it read: ‘I hope you’re in position. Here’s a picture of the witness’… I nearly dropped my phone in disbelief. It was like a nightmare but it was all completely real. I had to kill Julie. I felt an inner conflict, should I carry out the task at hand or should I listen to my emotions. My heart was pounding; each beat felt like a knife stabbing deep into my soul. I trembled with panic. I tried to steady my hand, regain my composure, but to no avail. Time was ticking away. Within a few seconds Julie would be out of sight and for the first time I would have failed a job; a blemish on my perfect record. But I loved Julie more than anything in the world.
I picked up the gun, still shaking with fear. I grasped the trigger. I took aim. By now Julie was only just in sight, talking with the paparazzi. I pulled the trigger. Click. The bullets cold steel pierced my skin, burning through my body. I began to stagger like a drunken fool. I toppled over the building, falling to certain death. I hit the ground with a colossal thud. I felt my life slipping away, getting further and further away. My sight began to fade. All I could see was Julie crying over my body. At that moment I knew I had made the right choice; one so full of sin such as I did not deserve to live…
Are they what lets us differentiate between right and wrong?
Are they intangible laws governing our actions?
To me, they are none of those; morals just get in the way… especially in my line of work, however now I’m questioning my entire philosophy all because of one person…
It was a cold December morn. The sun lay low in the misty sky, resting on the horizon. Snow drifted down from the heavens, glistening as it fell. I had just finished another hit for which I was paid substantially by my client, a narcissistic scumbag of a politician. Despite what people said, desire for wealth did not drive me, nor did reputation. I don’t know what drove me to slaughter people; I just felt I had a duty to fulfil.
The sun glared in my eyes, practically blinding me. Slipping on my sun glasses and sauntered down the path, scheduled to meet a new client in a quaint, little pub named “The Tortoise and the Hare”.
Inside the pub there was a putrid stench of sweat and smoke, the customers hunched over the tables in a sloth like manner. I scanned each nook and cranny for my client, but he was nowhere to be found. With time to kill, I headed to the bar – a tall, cool pint was just what I needed. The barman was a gruff fellow, his big belly bulging over his trousers. His accent was a slurred colloquial tongue, hardly intelligible.
As I was waiting for my drink, I noticed a woman, of striking complexion, enter the tavern, her mahogany hair swaying gently in the wind. I was taken aback by her radiance, she warmed my icy heart. “Excuse me,” I called to her; “…but please could I have your name?”
“Hi there, I ‘m Julie, now what do you go by?” she inquired; her voice was that of an angel.
“I don’t really have a name; most people just call me ‘thirteen’.”
“That is indeed an unlucky name. How enigmatic. You’ve piqued my curiosity, lets see if I can’t figure you out,” words can’t express the joy I felt at that moment.
We conversed well into the afternoon, becoming quite well acquainted with each other, when finally she whispered deep into my ear: “Goodbye, ‘L’, may we meet again.”
“I’ll wait for you,” I replied. She gave me a wink and left the pub. I felt lonely. I looked around for someone, anyone to talk with: there was not a soul in sight. As I was leaving the tavern, a man approached me. He was tall and well-built, but also surprisingly well dressed (at first I had assumed he was nothing more than hired help). “Ahh. Good evening Mr 13. I believe we talked about a job on the phone?” the gentleman was my client. The client that I had been waiting for all day! However, as he was a customer I bit my tongue and greeted him graciously.
“Ah yes, Mr. McKai. Who will I be disposing of then?” Usually clients tell me immediately who it is they want ‘erased’, though not him he said: “I shall send you a photograph when the time comes. For now, make sure you are at Bellé-View courthouse tomorrow at precisely 10:30am and that you have a mobile phone close at hand; my trial is scheduled for then and I can’t have the chief witness’ testimony incriminating me!” His eyes were very intense as they gazed upon me; he was quaking with rage.
“I don’t care why you need the job, all I care about is my fee,” I replied sternly.
“You will be paid upon completion of the task. Good night.” He stormed out the door.
10:20am. I was atop a large building opposite the courthouse. The wind was blisteringly cold. The sun was hidden behind ominous clouds. My phone began to vibrate. It was a text from Mr. McKai, it read: ‘I hope you’re in position. Here’s a picture of the witness’… I nearly dropped my phone in disbelief. It was like a nightmare but it was all completely real. I had to kill Julie. I felt an inner conflict, should I carry out the task at hand or should I listen to my emotions. My heart was pounding; each beat felt like a knife stabbing deep into my soul. I trembled with panic. I tried to steady my hand, regain my composure, but to no avail. Time was ticking away. Within a few seconds Julie would be out of sight and for the first time I would have failed a job; a blemish on my perfect record. But I loved Julie more than anything in the world.
I picked up the gun, still shaking with fear. I grasped the trigger. I took aim. By now Julie was only just in sight, talking with the paparazzi. I pulled the trigger. Click. The bullets cold steel pierced my skin, burning through my body. I began to stagger like a drunken fool. I toppled over the building, falling to certain death. I hit the ground with a colossal thud. I felt my life slipping away, getting further and further away. My sight began to fade. All I could see was Julie crying over my body. At that moment I knew I had made the right choice; one so full of sin such as I did not deserve to live…