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d a y 8

d a y  8

Anyone can be an assassin. It's not that hard. The idea that taking a life is inherently anti-human is rooted in our societal need to prop up morals inorganic to our race.

If killing was perfectly legal, you still wouldn't partake?

Alright, then what about stealing?

Paying taxes?

Driving without a license?

Running red lights?

Jaywalking?

You mean to tell me you didn't have a single sip of alcohol before your 21st birthday? Okay. So we pick and choose our crosses to carry. That's fair. But over regulating the most basic of human activities can only lead to a misunderstanding of what falls within the valley of right and wrong. The only difference between mercenary work and prostitution is I'm my own pimp and the climax satisfies both parties in far less manipulative ways, so technically what I do is far more humane. 

Imagine if, instead of poorly-intentioned Europeans colonizing half the world, the cannibalistic Trobrianders decided to leave their homelands, propagate their race, and spread their cultural norms across the globe. Fast forward several centuries and now human meat is a staple of the modern American diet. Human meat is sold in every major grocery store alongside ground beef and pork. Today eating people is unthinkable, considered beastly and barbaric, but this reality doesn't sound so outlandish to the native Trobriander, does it? No, I imagine not.

During my career as a dark web assassin, I've swallowed several hard lessons about circumventing changes of heart mid-mission. As a species, we are so very fragile. And yet so very strong. You don't know strength until you force a Russian dairy farmer's head underwater in a child-sized bathtub. You don't know strength until you fling yourself from rooftop to rooftop to escape mafia retaliation. You don't know strength until a surgeon who studied medicine for eight years and practiced it for decades after that, an expert in his field, tells you there is simply nothing that can be done.

Fear will save you.

It can also blind you.

Aspiring assassins die young because they can't handle contradictions and ambiguity, but I thrive in negative space. Death is a genderless entity and as its servant, I am also, temporarily, rendered an It. No longer he. No longer me.

So if you think this is the life for you, don't skimp on decent recording equipment. Write fast; you can't remember everything. Stay close, but keep your distance. Place the mission above all else, but don't lose yourself. Ask for the money upfront. Or half now and half later. Every accomplished whore knows it's never too soon to ask for payment. Don't solely rely on your sight. What they say and what you hear shouldn't be identical twins. Make observations. And be patient with yourself. With your mark. Let the situation unfold like an origami swan, wings and tail and head and feathers.

Currently, my pet swan nests alone. At her house. Probably sleeping.

I'm slowly realizing this is Mrs. Enderby's natural state of being: crusty eyed, wearing the same pajamas she microwaved macaroni and cheese in three days prior. If not, then she's wearing her crisp racing suit surrounded by friends, corporate sponsors, and a slew of fans begging for autographs. She is equally invisible in either environment. It does not matter.

With the way the client acted, I assumed her son Dean lived with her at the Atlantic, but she's currently the only resident who comes and goes. It'll be rather difficult to make the kill publically if she never leaves her house, but I'll find a way. It may happen while she's weighing bananas at the grocery store, but it'll get done.

After Saturday's race, Dean stayed the night and joined her for board games. They went to see a movie. She cooked him a nice meal. Then homework. Then bed. Her sardonic, slightly absent smile is replaced by genuine happiness while Dean is there.

This doesn't happen often. I saw it in how tightly she clung to Dean (like kudzu) when his father, her estranged soulmate, came to take him away Monday. Back to his real home.

The interviews I watched, the articles I read, and the photos I gathered would suggest Mrs. Enderby is a happily married mother peaking at the height of her career. She is very committed to keeping up this ruse. She is almost as good of a pretender as I am. Almost.

Like a minx in a zoo, Mrs. Enderby interacts with the world through a thick pane of glass. She can reach out but never touch. She can see but not participate. In short, she's miserable. Mrs. Enderby diffuses sorrow like a humidifier. I almost pity her. It's like watching a reanimated corpse shamble across the front lawn but your neighbors are too self-conscious to ask what the fuck is going on.

I pull my binoculars away from my face and adjust my headset.

I was wrong.

She is in bed, but she's not asleep. She's crying. Slightly muffled. Covering her mouth even though she's the only soul in the house.

I turn the volume down on my listening equipment and run through my rules. My hints and tips. I know Mrs. Enderby, even in the lowest depths of her depression, would never accept death at my hands without a fight, but I get the feeling somehow I would be doing her a favor.

(When was the last time you called your parents? Saw your son? Slept?)
Around 2 AM she tuckers herself out and her snores turn light but fitful. On the verge of overflowing.

You could ask me about the bodies I've broken in my time and I would tell you the story of the world. Our shared history. From the very first soulmark to the seven billion animals driving our species forward today. It would not take much effort.

But if you asked me what I was thinking that very moment, asked what made me reexamine how badly I really needed that 25K, I don't think I could muster an answer. Not in any language we know.

"Help," the swan mumbles in her sleep. "Help."

(No.)

I established myself as a professional in this business because whenever my heart whispers from the lagoon of my innermost thoughts, I forbid myself to hear it.

I turn off my headset.

I don't listen.

It doesn't help.