Diary Of An Assassin
RTC True Fiction
I kill babies for a living.
Sure, it's a sick job, but if I don't do it, someone
else will. A necessary evil, one might rationalize, to enforce Darwin's
I've never met my Employers. I like it that way, and
so do They. Somehow the anonymity strips away a layer of guilt and
accountability that we would both otherwise have to endure.
Unfortunately, it's been slow lately, so I pace my
8x8 workspace waiting for Them to call. And then I begin to worry,
"What if They don't call? What if I somehow fucked the last one
up? Did I go too soft on the pitiful little runt? What if the last
one was my very last? Then what would I do?"
But as quickly as the paranoia gels on my brain, They
do call. They've got another one for me.
A benefit of this occupation is that They deliver
the little brats right to my doorstep. Like clockwork, at 11am,
my next kill arrives. Too bad no one can hear it scream.
I usually throw It on my couch first ... and just
look at it. Maybe watch it squirm a little. After all, there'll
be plenty of time to finish the job. And as I study my victim, I
begin to wonder where to start. The head or the feet? Thrash his
skeleton or go straight for the innards? I could just burn the fucker.
That'd be a hoot! The poor thing would char quicker than you can
say briquette. But I do earn points with Them if I subject it to
a slow, thorough extermination.
I take a moment to ponder who this kid's father is.
I'd like to see his face when They tell him his baby's dead. How,
unfortunately, it was mauled to death by one of Their people. Christ,
what must go through a guy's mind when he gets news like that. His
baby. Dead. Just an infant. Had so much potential to do some good
in this world. To make people happy. Yeah, this kid's daddy would
have gotten great joy in watching the little critter develop into
maturity. But then ... along comes this ruthless entity and yanks
his baby out of existence before it really ever had a chance to
How do I have it in me? Well, let me tell you, I've
been a father, too. Several times, believe it or not. But here's
the rub: every one of my kids was eviscerated by people like Them.
Am I bitter? Sure. Very. But the more I focused on
my own spawn, the more I realized you can't beat Them. So I simply
switched sides and became one of Them. Granted, They will always
be Them, and I will always be an underling within their impenetrable
hierarchy. But I like to eat, and They operate the devil's nipple.
And I must admit, I do get off on being so feared all over town.
No, people don't want their babies to end up on my couch! So, I
put the past behind me as best I can and trudge into what I know
Some say I'm in denial about my losses. Those few
who know me and what I do wonder how I can continue day in and day
out. In my own home, no less. Sometimes on the very bed where I
sleep, and sometimes fuck. But home is where I feel I do my best
work. Where else could I comfortably dispose of the bleeding bastard
-- in a beautiful city park? It's been done, but not by this guy.
If it makes you feel any better, I try not to leave too many stains.
But I digress. The issue at hand is the Issue on my
couch and what methods I should employ to terminate this pale, pathetic
progeny. I finish my ritual of probing it from front to back and
begin to realize that I murdered this poor son of a bitch's first
baby almost a year ago! Actually, thinking back, this one -- his
second child -- is a lot cuter and smarter than the first.
Oh, I rarely have thoughts like that. "Cute and smart."
They encourage me not to. All They want to hear is that the thing's
dead and get on with Their routine lives. Sometimes I'm a little
tempted to call Them. Tell Them I just can't do it this time around.
That there's something in this one that They may be able to take
advantage of while it's alive. But that's a rarety. And as I get
on in years, and the bitterness invades my tissue, I'm usually able
to just slay the annoying little prick, toss the remains, and get
on to the next one with as little emotional attachment as possible.
Anyway, this one's not "cute and smart" enough for
me to get all giddy about it. No. This one's going to get tossed
just like the rest of them.
Just as I unfold my trusty instrument of death, I
get a call. It's Them. Wondering if I can take another this afternoon
and have the job done before tomorrow. Christ, I've onlhad this
sad case for an hour, and they already want me to bash in another
one. Even the best of us do get a little punch drunk. But we never
know when the next one's coming, so I accept. They'll have him on
my doorstep, like clockwork, at 2pm.
But that means I'll have to pick up the pace on this
bastard. Stop enjoying it so much and simply do the deed before
my next victim arrives. Some can cope with two or three hanging
around their dungeon at one time. I can do it, too. But I'd rather
not have others dangling over me, staring at me with pathetic eyes,
while I gut another of their kind right in front of them. I might
be a sick fuck, but I have standards, too.
So I finally get to work on my prey, surgically picking
at its flesh, piece by wretched piece..... By the end of the day,
my place is a mess; I'm a mess. I thrust open the sliding glass
door to evacuate the accumulated stench, and I review the damage
before sending Them my requisite reports.
The phone rings again. Christ! Who do They think I
am? I have a life, too!
.... And indeed I have a life -- it's only my wife
calling this time. From her car, on her way home:
-- "Hi, hon! What are you doing?
I suddenly become flushed. It's nice to hear her voice.
A soft, humane voice. I swallow and can only meekly reply:
-- "H...Hi, sweety. Just finishing up a couple scripts
-- "Oh, that's good! Glad to hear you're keeping busy.
Want me to bring something home for dinner?"
I take my time before answering the most weighted
question of my day. And then I tell her thanks, but no. With all
this killing, I've really lost my appetite.
-- from the desk of a Hollywood story analyst, to
whom some refer as "Splash"