6:01 p.m.

     I’m not the hero of this story. I’m not the hero of any story, for that matter. Anyone thinking that way would be better off getting that idea out of their pretty little heads. It may spare them some insanity later. More often than not, a hero is just another coward who ran out of options. I do not suffer that problem. I always have options. Speaking of which, it’s time to plan ahead. While I can kill multiple targets from any range and angle with deadly accuracy and speed, that’s pretty much the extent of my multitasking skills. Like most self-employed individuals, I have a secretary that handles all that disarray. She’s the first on my speed dial. Actually, she’s the only one on my speed dial. Anyone else that I need to call, she does it for me. If I ever come calling someone directly, well…

The phone barely gets a ring off before I hear: “Red Sight Enterprises. This is Josephine. How may I help you?”

“Jo-Jo. This is my private line. You know I’m the only one that would ever use it. Quit fucking around and give me my evening schedule.”

“Hello to you too, boss. I missed you as well,” she replied sarcastically. “I thought you’d appreciate the professionalism especially considering the spanking you gave me last week or did I misinterpret that as a disciplinary act.”

     Jo-Jo’s birthday was last week or so she claims, and the spanking was her idea. It was the present she requested from me. Like I said, I’m not the hero of this story. I don’t understand the girl and to call her weird is the mother of all understatements. She wanted one for every year she’s been alive. I’d say how many spanks I gave but that might land me in jail. She could’ve asked for a raise or a bonus, as I was intending on giving her but she was adamant about her request. Given that she’s always saving every penny of her money for her future education, I thought money would be an ideal present. I’d say what school she was in now but I can’t say that either. I cite the same reason for my inability to state how many spanks I gave. In my defense, I think she doctored her own birth certificate when she was at that orphanage but why take that chance.

“One day, you’re going to have to explain that whole spanking thing but today is not that day. What’s on the menu this evening?”

“You have three appointments, boss. Two high profile and one low profile. The high profile ones are both ‘Family’ requests. The low profile is a request from the community to, and I quote, ‘remove a cancer from their streets’ by whatever means necessary.

“Ha! I knew the good mayor would cave in eventually. The police don’t have the range that I do,” I said.

“Boss. While I would never doubt you’re powers of observation, are you sure it didn’t have anything to do with that gang rape of his daughter at that downtown club?”

“It will be a mystery that we may very well take to our graves but that’s neither here nor there so therefore, it does not matter. All that matters is that I’m on for tonight. Do we have eyes on our prizes yet?”

“All three, boss. Reports just came in right before your call. The LowPro is expecting company. Apparently, the good mayor felt the need to talk a little shit before he made the call to us. Old Boy is expecting the entire S.W.A.T. team along with the National Guard to come crashing through his door at his wanna-be Drug Empire HQ in Jersey City but it shouldn’t be a problem considering the onsite Intel we’ve received. For someone who’s worried about getting merc’d, he sure as hell has a lot of windows.”

“I’m not going to use a sniper rifle this time.” I said.

“Boss. The money has already been wired. You don’t need the bonus.”

“Jo-Jo, Please” I chided.

“BUT, BOSS!”

“When have I not delivered?” I said with authority. “When have I left an unsatisfied customer?”

“But you don’t even need the money! I’ve checked the accounts. We’re well above last year’s net gain…”

“Jo-Jo…”

“We could take a vacation! It’ll be fun! I know you hate the sun so we can go to some place not so bri…”

“JO-JO! Focus. What about my two high profile ‘clients?’”

“They’re…waiting for you as well.”

“Waiting? For me?”

“The contract for the Vezzinis has been on the table for the better part of an eternity. They’ve known that since the first attempt on their lives,” she said in a quieter voice. “Many different attempts have been made to collect on that contract but it obviously proved too difficult for the less qualified individuals that attempted to collect on it. I guess that’s why you got the call.”

“But they’re waiting for me? Specifically?”

“Yes. They are not without they’re spies and the streets only show loyalty to the almighty dollar. Besides, they must’ve figured there aren’t too many hired guns left in the world crazy enough to try to take them down, what with what happened to the last guy and all.”

“Well, that makes things interesting. No wonder you’re a bit worried. It’s not like you to be nervous. As a matter of fact, it’s a bit scary and surprisingly flattering.”

“Seriously, boss. Do you really need this kind of heat?” she asked. “And why the need to do 3 assignments in one night?”

“Actually, it’s four assignments for tonight. Hence the reason I’m calling you.” “Four? But I don’t remember scheduleling…”

“I need you to make me an appointment with the Lively sisters.” I interrupted. “GODDAMN IT, BOSS! Not another exorcism! I thought you said you were done with those!”

“This one is important, Jo-Jo,” I said in a calming voice. “Is that what the priest said?”

     It stuns me how she can sound older and more mature than she really is; how astute she can be when it comes down to reading a situation. The truth is, she may be right. The monsignor has a sick and twisted way about him that makes damn near every word that comes out of his mouth enticing. It’s like poisoned honey by the time it reaches one’s ears. I didn’t notice it then but now that Jo-Jo mentioned it, I can’t help but wonder if she doesn’t have a point or not. Regardless of the fact, the job still has to be done and the Monsignor did have a point: I’m the only one that can do this particular job.

“Make the appointment. I’m going to start getting ready for work.” “Fine. But one day, all of these “side jobs” are gonna bite you in the ass, boss!”

“You mean, as opposed to the jobs from my regular line of work?” I asked matter of factly.

“It’s just…it’s just that...” her voice lowering to barely a whisper.

“Who loves you, Jo-Jo?” I asked before she could finish voicing her thought.

“You do, sir. And I know what you’re going to say so you don’t have to say it. I won’t despair anymore and I was wrong for doing it. I’ll get back to you when I confirm the appointment with the sisters. Happy hunting, sir,” she said as she hung up.

     She only calls me sir when she’s worried or when she’s done something wrong. In this case, she’s guilty of both, it would seem. Ever since I took her out of that orphanage and brought her to my home, I’ve had very few rules but they were rules that always had to be followed; one of them being, to never lose faith in me. I know she doesn’t but sometimes even my little walking Rolodex forgets that. I guess I’ll have to readdress that issue with her but at a later date. Right now, I have more pressing agendas on my to-do list.

6:47p.m.

     As I was finishing talking to Jo-Jo, I had just arrived at the cigar shop on Park Avenue in Weehawken. I rarely ever smoke and if I do, cigars aren’t my first choice unless it was given to me by a proud father toasting the birth of his infant child. Even then, the only reason I accept it is to abuse the law that prohibits smoking in hospitals; given my above average “eyesight,” I can’t stay around newborns for too long a time. Newborns are innocent and innocence is blinding. That being said, cigars, and namely cigar boxes, can also be reallocated for a purpose other than storing cigars. Some are the perfect size for different caliber firearms. As I am a mover and a shaker, I find it convenient to stash some hardware and armament all around town. It makes it easier for me when I get an impromptu contract.

“Tio! Que bola acere!”

“Mijo. It’s so good to be seeing you.” Tio Efraim said in his broken English and thick Cuban accent. “I was just about to have som café. Joo wan son?

“No, thanks, Tio. I’m kind of in a hurry,” I said as I kept walking into the back room.

I don’t know why he even asks. I know for a fact that he’s pouring me a cup regardless of my objection. That’s the bad thing about old people. They ask you something and, no matter what your reply, they’ll insist you do things their way. It tests one’s patience at times but I’ve grown used to it with Tio by now. The good side about the elderly though, especially old Cuban men, is that they rarely ever ask, questions, about your business. I say rarely because they do have a habit of being nosey; they’ll inquire about you to someone else. It’s like they’re all trained spies gathering information that they may or may not use against you. I don’t blame him though. He was living in Cuba when Castro took over. If it wasn’t for his mother’s “intelligence gathering,” he probably would’ve never made it to the United States when he did.

     I went back to my private cigar box units on the wall. Tio rents them out like storage lockers but for cigars for a reasonable fee. Each one has its own individual thermostat and humidifier built in for the proper storage of cigars. I happen to rent out six however, only one of them is used for actual cigars. I inserted my key in one of them and pulled out a large cigar box that had a 3 digit tumbler lock. I opened it and pulled out my twin 9mm Beretta 92FS pistols complete with specially modified silencers. Even with the silencers equipped, the siderarms fit perfectly into the pockets of my clichéd black leather duster. I grabbed two extra magazines and put all the boxes away for future use…if I should survive the night, that is.

     As I was walking out, I passed by Tio and, sure enough, there was my little cup of espresso. Before I could even object again, the old man held up the cup to me. Not wanting to offend his hospitality, I took it and drank it as quickly as I could which was difficult considering it was a degree or two warmer than liquid hot magma. Staying on his good side is always a priority though considering his reaction if he knew why I frequented his establishment. Then again, having been born and raised in Havana during the revolution, he’s probably seen more Hell than I ever will. Sometimes, I want to up and confess my actual profession. It’s just out of curiosity. I want to see how long before he gives me a down payment and sends me to Cuba with a really long sniper rifle. I said my thanks and left the shop. As I was leaving and was closing the door, I vaguely heard him say something. However, I was pressed for time so I couldn’t go back and ask him what it was.

7:21p.m.

     Pimps and drug dealers have come a long way from in the 80’s. They don’t work out of abandoned warehouses anymore. No sir. They have legitimate houses, hotels, and apartment complexes that they work out of or reside in. Old Boy, however is the kingpin of pimps and drugs in Jersey City. He actually has an entire gated community right off of route 440 that sits pretty overlooking the Newark Bay. Supposedly he’s been doing this forever, which is why he’s gotten so far, hence the name, “Old Boy.” I always laugh at it though considering he’s only just 17 years old. Nevertheless, that boy is ruthless and his little street empire is proof positive of the boy’s drive and resolve. Given proper parents, instead of and endless sea of foster homes, that boy would’ve been in college instead of having an appointment with the business end of my Buck knife.

     I parked the car in a parking lot just north of the neighborhood and climbed over the wall into the quiet and innocent looking little berg and headed for the house that I thought my prey would be hiding in. Normally, I would’ve had to have scoped the place out and done a day’s worth of reconnaissance to find the place. Not tonight though. Tonight, All I would have to do is look for “him.” He’s never hard to find. Even I miss him from time to time when one or two people are meant to crossover from this world but when there’s the potential for massive carnage, violence and chaos, he appears to me as bright as day. Sure enough, not 5 minutes into my search through the quiet and desolate streets of the gated community, I spot him and as always, he spots me. There, in all his glory, about 20 feet above the house, descending in a downward spiral, he glided down, air filling his dark-plumed wings; a sinister leaf on a macabre wind.

     He landed on the edge of the house, his bare feet, ashen pale, gently resting on the eaves with the skill of a gymnast and the grace of a swan. His dark wings, outstretched high above his head, retracted and slowly draped across his shoulders and overflowed over the rest of his body taking the shape a trench coat similar to mine but it shone like a dark armor of sorts. Death, known for being this cold and wicked thing, is also the embodiment of theatricality. His dramatic entrance having just proven that.

     Without taking his chilling gaze off of me, he smiled his pernicious smile, pointed his forefinger at me and, with the same finger, traced a line across his pallid neck. Did I forget to mention he doesn’t like me very much? He’s still upset at the fact that he didn’t take me when he had the chance and more because of the fact that a mere mortal can see him.

     I didn’t waste anymore time. When Death has you in his sights and gives you a very clear message, such as the one I just received, you don’t stand still. I raced across the street to the gate of the house, hopped over it and proceeded to walk up the path to the front door. Two gangbangers at the front door, already reaching into their jackets, were standing guard.

“Yo! Is Old Boy in? We got some business to discuss.” I said with wicked grin of my own.

     Before they even had a chance to draw, my 9mm were leveled at their heads, each one coughing once after I pulled both triggers and embedding a full metal jacket hollow point slug in each of their skulls. They dropped like a sack of potatoes and I, staying in stride and using my momentum, kicked in the front door. Normally, I go in with something resembling a plan when it comes to a target but I was on the clock and one never takes their time with Death literally looming about.

     The foyer was empty and the whole house was quiet but everyone and their mothers must’ve heard that crash. You’d think they’d have engaged the deadbolt even with the guards outside. I pondered on that thought for two seconds as I crossed the threshold into the living room and then I realized why the door had practically been left open for me. There, standing in the living room, was Death, scythe high in the air over his shoulder and swinging it from right to left as if to cleave my head. I barely had time to duck my head out of the way as trace fire from an AK-47 left peppered the wall in a line; the exact line the Mr. Reaper of Souls over there had just traced along the walls. Any man would’ve been dead walking into that room but it’s hard to kill someone when he can see Death coming for him.

“Old Boy! What’s poppin’ son!"

“Fuck! Creed?! Oh, man! I knew that piece of shit was gonna send some heavy hitters…,” Old Boy started to say.

“Didn’t think it was gonna be me, did ya?” I finished his thought.

“It doesn’t matter. You still don’t have enough guns to take all eight of us out, homie! Heh! I expected better from the so-called urban legend of hitmen. What you think I was just gonna go all quietly. You best believe I’m gonna go down swingin’, son!”

     A blur streaked down the hallway past the stairs to the left of the entranceway into the living room. Already I could see the cowl and scythe taking shape in the air just at the corner of another doorway down the hall. Just as it did, one of the thugs, spun around the corner bringing up his hand cannon to take a shot. I aimed and squeezed the trigger. The silence making the bullets cough as they exited the barrel and they hit their target center mast. I didn’t even have to aim. That’s one of the benefits of having a visual acuity of 20/1.

“My math is a little off, Old Boy. Is that eight of you including the two cats outside and the punk-ass that watched too many war movies that tried to flank me just now or do you have 7 more human shields between you and me?”

“You’re a dead man!”

     I got up and ran past the open doorway, heading to the far side of the hallway as a hail of gunfire erupted and exploded upon the area of all that I was just using as cover. As I was getting to the stairs, I saw motion again. A slow lumbering mass of black man was coming down the stairs wearing nothing but boxer shorts and holding a TEC-9 handgun. A lethal weapon in the hands of someone who knows how to use one. He didn’t. “This is how it’s done, big pimpin’,” I said as I put three slugs in his chest. I got to the end of the hallway where the body of the flanking thug still lay. Without hesitation, I walked into the room with all of Old Boy’s bodyguards were, fully automatic machine guns being reloaded, giving me more time than I could ever ask for to make multiple kills. It was Christmas morning. Even as the reloaded AK-47 began to fire, I had every single one of these street soldiers’ numbers. All of their guns, glowing ruby red because of my unique eyesight, made them all easy targets for me.

     Unloading every round in my magazines I put multiple bullets in everyone in the room. My silencers, starting to work less with the excessive uses still thumped and thudded as hot, twisted metal spewed forth from their barrels, finding there marks, and at times without even having to be aimed. The last two bullets, the only ones I truly aimed, found their home; one in Old Boy’s shooting hand, the other in his opposite shoulder. Down he went and a deafening silence filled the room.

“ARRRGH! Please, man! C’mon! Don’t kill me, man! I’ll pay you double…triple whatever you’re being paid!” He begged.

“Tempting. However, I am a professional. What would that say about me if I started reneging on contracts? But don’t worry. I’m not gonna kill you,” I said honestly.

“You’re not? Then why the fuck did you come here? Why’d you shoot all my boys? Why’d you shoot me?!”

“Because, you fucked up. Because you and you’re lil’ homies over here decided to go a little too crazy with a little bit of tail that happened to have been fathered by the mayor of this town. And most of all, because like any father, he doesn’t want your head,” I paused, putting my 9mm away in my trench coat pockets and unsheathing my 6’ Buck knife, “he wants your balls.”

“What?! Naw, man! Hells, no! I didn’t even touch that bitch! That chickenhead was acting a fool. She needed to be taught a lesson but I never laid a hand on her.”

“Tsk! Tsk! You were there, Old Boy. You gave the order. What is it you always say? ‘Nothing happens on these streets without my say-so!’”

“C’mon, man! Naw! Please don’t…”

“Do you see now, why I shot everyone?” I asked, drawing out the moment. “If I would’ve called ahead and told you all I needed was your balls, would you have invited me over and said, ‘Sure! No problem. Go ahead and slice my balls off’?”

     The screams started before I even used the knife to cut off his belt and pants and continued well after my initial stab. It took all of my focus and concentration to put the mayor’s requested item into a plastic bag and into an ice cream tray I found in the living room. As I was walking, I heard a low, guttural laugh from behind me where Old Boy’s now crippled body lay bleeding. I’m only human. That shouldn’t be an excuse though. I’ve been given this…ability and I should be used to all things supernatural but Death is not something anyone can ever prepare for.

     My guns empty, I reached for my now glowing, bloody red Buck knife, spun around and aimed for Death; for where I thought Death’s black heart would be. I threw the knife with my God-given accuracy and it pierced the spot where I thought his icy heart should be and it hit his mark. He looked down, his grin slightly diminished but still intact and looked up at me. He held out his fingers, thumb and forefinger close together, signaling an obvious sign of “almost” to me and then faded away into the ether. I breathed a rare sigh of relief as I went back to the body that the blade was embedded in; the body of Old Boy, with knife through his heart, and holding a .357 revolver that he must’ve had hidden the whole time I was performing my surgery on him.

8:21p.m.

You can see yourself being anything you want to be but you can't call yourself that until you see (or rather notice) yourself doing it. If I fancy myself a writer, why haven't I been writing? It's as honest a question as any and it's one that I've just asked myself. Just now. I do not know the answer. I just know that, while I've wanted to write, I haven't been able to. It's more of a fugue than a writer's block though. I've known what I've wanted to write about and even brainstormed and put some ideas down to paper. Then, the motivation that drove me to that point evaporated. Usurped by some form of lethargy that makes me, well, not give a damn. It's as if I've just woken up from a long slumber. Only this time around, not only do I know that time has passed and I've done nothing, I also recall that this isn't the first instance in which I've fallen into this weird little daydream of mine.

And now, I'm "awake" once again, so to speak. Now I'm motivated but for how long? Truth is, I do not know but I'm not gonna sit and wait for it. I'm just going to write. I'm going to put ideas out there and see what they do. I'm just going to tell some stories. I'm not going to be afraid of what others might think of them. I'm just going to put pen to paper and hope for the best.

Those close to me, who know me and have seen my works and have been my strongest supporters will be glad to read this and I know they are reading this. To you all, I say: "Thank you!" Thanks for waking me up and reminding me of what I love doing. Hard to believe one can forget what one loves but it happens. That being said, I hope that any further writing, be it blogs or short stories, will entertain you or give you insight. Enough with that then. Time to brainstorm!