Some men fight for their country. Others fight selflessly for someone they love. Some fight for glory, and honour. For others, it is simply loyalty. I, however, fight purely for the will of a stranger, and the contents of their wallet. Many have described me as a greedy, selfish man, but I prefer to think of myself as a vigilante.

Sure, some of the men who I’ve killed may not have deserved as much as they got, and perhaps a few of them didn’t even deserve anything; but I did it anyway. I am a killer; and I don’t give a damn. I follow the instructions of my clients, but I am not a machine, and as for the ones who underestimated me? They got what was coming to them. A bullet with their name on it.

People who don’t know what I do wouldn’t have guessed that I kill people for a living, and a damn good living too. I meditate, do yoga; I even have a nine year old son. He doesn’t know what I do, and I only see him on Sundays, when I pick him up from his mother’s house in the hills. It’s a long drive, and sometimes I only end up having him for the evening before he goes back to his mother’s in the morning.

But I am still a compassionate man. I was married once, until she found out what I did, and I have saved a child’s life from his own stepfather. I am charitable, and forgiving – though my profession says otherwise – and have certainly given my fare share of money to the needy.

Say what you like, but I know who I am, and I know what I am doing. And to be honest; I couldn’t care less.

Well, this is where I think I should start this story. It was one o’ clock in the morning, and I stood, bathing in the cold, artificial light of the street lamp, on Powell street. A rather normal looking suburban home stood across the road, soaked by a more orange coloured street lamp that cast shadows behind every obstacle. It had a brush fence, and a small, but well looked after garden visible through the gap in the fence, where a white station wagon was parked. The garden had a cobble pathway twisting through the shrubs to the front door. I started across the road, and came so close to a passing car that I could feel the cold wind against my face, followed by the heat and petroleum smell from the exhaust, but I still kept my eyes transfixed on my target.

I was about to walk through the gate, when the bright headlights of a sedan blinded me. I winced until it went away. I looked to either side of myself, and then walked through. The smell of assorted herbs filled the air, but was then overtaken by an awful smell, as a cat had retreated up a tree from me, and left a dead bird behind. I stepped over the poor creature, and found myself at the door. Then I looked up. A security camera swivelled around to see me, and an alarm went off within the house. Oh no, I thought to myself. I kicked at the door, and the hinges began to creak.

I kicked again and the whole door came loose. All it took was a push and it collapsed into the dark hallway. I couldn’t hear footsteps, because the alarm was making my eardrums shiver and shake. I looked down the hall that branched off into different rooms, and saw at the back; a man fleeing out into the backyard. I drew my gun and ran after him. I made it to the backyard, and saw him struggling to clamber over the trellis. I aimed my gun, but he clambered over too quick.

I made my way over the trellis much faster than he did, but I had to put my gun away, because now I was chasing him through the dark streets. Ahead of us, and girl was about to enter her land rover, but my victim pushed her aside, and grabbed the keys she had placed on the seat a moment earlier. He slammed the door behind him, and the headlights poured over me. He revved the engine twice, and then he was coming for me. I knew what I had to do. I drew my gun and began to run towards him again.

I jumped into the air at just the right moment, and landed on the floor, sliding. I tilted my head back, watched and felt the pressure of the car roll over the top of me. I kept my arms close to my sides to avoid the wheels. Once it had passed over me, I flipped myself up, and aimed my deadly weapon. A couple of accurate shots through the back window, and my bullet had been lodged in his skull. Carved on the side of the bullet, it said Ryan Hearse, and on the back it said Rex PI. That’s me. Richard ‘Rex’ Smith. The private investigator. I lowered my gun and put it back in my coat. I glared a glare at the only witness which said, ‘Tell anyone, and you’re next’.

This is what I do. I’m a goon, a contract killer, an assassin, a private eye and a thug. But more than any of these, I am Rex, Private Investigator. I walked off into the dark, empty, artificial light of the suburban streets. My gun retired comfortably to the holster under my jacket, and I walked on home. I opened the front gate by punching in a password on a small number pad in front of my huge, modern, cream coloured house, with a black wrought iron fence that surrounded the estate like a fortress. I walked across the lush, green grass and to my front door. I rummaged in all my pockets, until I pulled out the keys. I shoved them in the lock, and turned them to the side, and pushed forward.

The door jerked open and revealed the eerie home, that was dimly light by the white moonlight streaming from the doorway. It was only once I flicked the switch beside the door did the room light up, and the abstract paintings on the wall spring to life. Somewhere, slow jazz started playing along with the activation of all the lights in the house. I looked to my left and saw a stone archway to my study, which had an open door leading to another room on the study’s right, and on my left, I saw the closed door to a white tiled bathroom.

In front of my was the spiral staircase, with a door on its left. I went through the door, and found myself in my lounge room. I came out by a magnificent plasma screen television and a black leather couch opposite the TV, that still had the same new smell it had in the big shop I bought it from. On the right side of the room, there was a door leading to a laundry, which had a door leading to my backyard, and to my left there was a door leading to a big room with new, shiny kitchen appliances, and a dining table.

I crashed forward into the couch, and stayed there until the blissful morning light of a Saturday in spring awoke me. At some point during the night I turned the television on, but I couldn't remember when. I found myself staring lazily at the early morning news, but I couldn't hear what was being said, until I head the word Rex PI. They had read my bullet. Good publicity at least.

I grabbed the back of the couch, and pulled myself upwards, but when I let go I realised how weak my legs were, so I decided to crash back into the leather. I laid there for a few more hours; awake, but dreaming. It was only the shrill ring of my mobile in my pocket that made me sit up.

I reached in and held the phone up. An overseas number. I pressed the silent button, and put it on the varnished, oak coffee table, and stood. This time my legs could move.

I walked to the kitchen, and opened my fridge, felt the sudden cold on my forehead, and took out a vegetable juice from the door. It was dark orange, but looked much brighter once I poured it into a rather large, thick glass. I sculled it down in three quick gulps, and felt the cold liquid rush down my oesophagus, and into my stomach. I blinked twice, and was suddenly filled with energy.

I walked to the sink, and turned the cold water handle of the tap. I carelessly held the glass underneath the tap, and felt the freezing water overflow, and run onto my hand. It had been a cold night, and the water was the same. I pulled my hand out, and left the glass beside the sink.