“What did you do with the body?”
“I got rid of it.”
“Obviously, but how?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because I’m not going to serve jail time for your mistakes.”
“Relax. I made a li’l bed for it on the bottom of the East River, if ya know what’m sayin’. “
“Good. Your payment will be in the trash can at the intersection of Quinn Boulevard and 63rd Street by 8:30 next Monday.”
“Next Monday? For Chrissakes, I ain’t got that kinda time! How’m I gonna eat?”
Silence. I sighed and hung up the payphone. I was tired of all these concerned idiots who hung up when I mentioned my concerns. “It’s probably ‘cause I’m a rookie,” I mumbled to myself. But I wanted to prove that I was no rookie. Despite the fact that I’m experienced in crime itself, I’ve only started being a thug-for-hire. Plus, I hadn’t done many contracts, so I wasn’t that highly respected. “That’ll change soon,” I muttered as I rolled up my sleeve. I needed to take more contracts in order to sustain myself, so I had written down the number of another client who needed me on my arm. I dialed the number, and waited a couple of seconds before a warbled voice came up.
“Hello, Butcher.” That was my alias. “Are you calling to discuss the contract I offered?”
“’Course. Whaddya want me to do?”
“Well, I want you to eliminate the manager of a local Citibank branch, Bryon E. Harris. He manages the Quinn Boulevard branch, and lives on 2491 Condor Street. He is a rather plump man, and arrives home at about 7PM every weekday. You know where to go from here.”
“Can I ask why I gotta kill the guy?”
“If you really must know, it has something to do with eliminating my competition, if you know what I’m saying.”
“I do. But hold up-how much will I get paid?”
“5000 USD, in cash.”
“He’ll be gone before the weekend.”
“Perfect. I expect a job well done.”
It was 7:14 when Bryon rolled up in his driveway. He was massive to the point where he had a hard time getting out of his Cadillac and barely fit in his doorway. Killin’ this slowpoke’ll be a piece of cake, I thought. Time to chop this fool up for dinner.  Musing aside, I had all the basics on me: a set of lockpicks, a bodybag, a silenced M1911, a switchblade, and a ski mask. Hiding in the bushes nearby, I waited until he closed and locked his door to go up to his window.
From there, I observed as he plopped down his bag, laid on his couch, and turned on the TV. From what I could make out, he was snacking on chips while watching the news about some car bomb in the WTC. “What a lousy year to live in, 1993,” I murmured. Clearly, he had no situational awareness, making it the perfect time to strike. I inched to the kitchen backdoor in the winter darkness and lockpicked it swiftly. You’d think a big shot like this guy would have more protection, but no. I snuck into the kitchen, silently closing the door behind me. The moron had his TV blaring, so of course he didn’t notice it when I opened my switchblade and thrust it into his fat-filled neck and slitting it, a little blood getting on my gloves and the leather couch. However, Mr. Harris was just too fat.
I was expecting the man to plop to the floor as my knife penetrated his skin. But he looked behind him, tears in his eyes, and yelled a dying elephant’s trumpet loud enough for the neighbors to hear. In my disbelief, I whipped out my pistol and shot him twice. His dead body landed on the floor with a thump and spilled blood all over the place, making it look like I dropped a box full of jelly donuts. I violently whispered countless profanities at the mess I made of the situation. Not only did I have all this blood to clean up and two nice weapons I’d have to toss, but I probably woke the neighbors. If I did, the police would come shortly, meaning acting fast was crucial.
I hastily tried to stuff the bloody corpse in the bodybag, but it didn’t fit! So I tried to drag the body out of the house, but it left a trail of blood, and I felt like I was lifting a ton. Sweat ran down my forehead. I was running out of ideas, and I was paranoid that the cops would bust through the front door any second. Out of the blue, my stomach grumbled. I hadn’t eaten for at least a week…those 5000 bucks would feed me for at least a month. I could feel the neighbors’ eyes, all watching the house, the police maybe a block or two away. I kept flinching while I was panicking because I swore I heard police banging on the door, but none busted in or spoke. Hallucinations? At this rate, I’ll be in the insanity ward if they lock me up, I worried. Nerve-wracked and starving, I could only think of one way to get rid of the late Mr. Harris. I took out my knife and stared at the gruesome body, occasionally glancing at the stove…
“Hello, Butcher. Is he gone?”
“Uurgh…Yeah. He’s in a worse place now.”
“May I ask what you did with the body?”
“Do ya hafta?”
“It’s standard procedure, Butcher.”
“I…I…I ate it.”