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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: January 27, 2018

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Submitted: January 27, 2018



There was a very specific set of rules that the man dutifully kept. These rules helped him keep his carefully woven lifestyle in check. Thinking back, the man recalled with a wry smile how easily those rules had come crashing down all beginning with a small purple tied package. 


The hooded man stood in a telephone booth leaning casually against the glass holding the corded phone to one ear and breathing in the toxic smoke of a cigarette with the other. On the other side of the phone was a nasally voiced man who he couldn't wait to get rid of.  The man smirked at the thought that this near kid was probably using his parents money to pay for this. “Fifty” he gruffly said, replying to the nasally man’s last question.
 “Fifty?! I was told it was only..twenty.. Y- You sure?” The other voice said, squeaking higher towards the end.
 “You were misinformed. The price is fifty.” The man said taking another breath of his cigarette and listening to the passing cars and city noise outside of the confined telephone booth.
 “That is mighty expensive.. You better be damn good.” Raising the phone closer to his mouth the man laughed into the receiver, a deep chuckle that died as quickly as it began. 
“I'm the best” He said in a final tone before slamming the phone back onto the holder and opening the door only to quickly walk into the shadows leaving nothing, not even a trace of him ever being there to begin with. Rule one: Don’t ever sell yourself cheap.
Another day, another phone call the man sighed taking the long route to one of his many properties not slowing down for anything. The man always made sure to keep careful track of time as one mislip even by a minute or two could mean utter disaster. This lead to the man’s second rule; Be careful and precise.  As the man went on his way he observed the people scurrying around him as he slipped passed, barely even noticed. To him, the people looked like ants rushing around to take care of their busy lives that seemed so miniscule. Although any normal life was good only for being observed and mocked. To him, his own life was relatively simple. Or from a different perspective, complex.  His life consisted of a strict routine. Research, stalk, and execute. Rule three: Careful research equals a good execution. 
His business was death and as his father always said, business can never be bad. The hitman had been doing this work for a long time. Long enough to realize that everyone’s life held a price. Nobody died for free. And long enough to know how to be the best. His price was strictly Fifty Thousand dollars a hit. No less and sometimes even more if the target was riskier or of higher profile. He had killed doctors, political leaders, lawyers, escorts, lovers, policemen, firefighters, teachers and abundance of others. One thing however remained the same. His price never wavered and he never planned to lower it. Or at least he thought he never would.
He was an ex-soldier washout of a person, desperate for work. He’d searched everywhere, travelling across the country town to town and city to city, attempting to find jobs as a security guard or cop. He was not unfamiliar with having to stay overnight on the streets, sleeping among the homeless when times began to get more desperate as the weeks passed by. Then suddenly opportunity rung and he took the call when a man had stolen his food. That was his first kill, gone in his sleep. Another man who had been the now dead man’s rival, paid him a hundred dollars and suddenly with that small taste into the lifestyle, the hitman was hooked. 
It was on that day, the day he spoke to the nasally voiced man, that he found it. From an outsider, the situation might’ve been laughable. The small package was sat delicately on his front porch wrapped in purple wrapping paper and tied with silver ribbon as if done by a child’s hand. On a normal day the man might’ve simply thrown the package away or even burned it as who knows what could be contained in the small box. Perhaps a bomb or some other dangerous substance, as he had a lot of people who may want to get rid of him. But today wasn’t normal and for whatever reason, the man couldn’t seem to recall why, he decided to carry the box inside. He sat it on his dining room table amongst the various knives and guns that were scattered throughout his apartment. It was laughable really, the man thought, how this obscenely cute gift could’ve found its way to him of all people. 
Upon opening it the man was met with a small note written with what appeared to be crayon. The man felt a giddy feeling of excitement rise in his stomach. Whether it was because he had never truly received a gift or just the strange situation of the matter, he did not know. Under the hand-written paper was a loose collection of bills and change. Carefully counting the money out, the man came to a sum of $47.25.  After turning back to the scrawled note the man began reading. 

Dear Mister,
My name is Katelyn Delarosa, my mommy calls me Katie though. I hope you can help me. I have a problem that I think you can help me with. 

At this the hitman stopped and guiltily looked around his sparsely decorated apartment feeling as if he was somehow doing wrong by reading this innocent letter, but he decided to keep going. 

My daddy is a bad man. He hurts my mommy alot and some nights he comes into my room and tells me he loves me but hurts me in a bad way. I think he lying thogh when he says that. Mommy cries a lot. She tells me that I should run away while I still can but I don’t want to be alone. Mister, i live near you and i’ve seen you soemtimes with your guns even thogh you try to hide it. Please mister, I saved all the money that mommy slips me sometimes. Daddy spends most of it on all those bottles but I hided some. Please mister my daddy is bad and bad people have to go away. He says he’s gonna kill my mommy and i’ll replace her when she’s gone. I dont want to be alone with him mister. Heres all my money mister, I know you make people disappereah. Please make my daddy disappere. We live at 12 ashwood drive. Daddy comes home really late everynight and works in the city as a teacher. 
Love, Katie
P.S dont worry i wont tell no one. Plus I dont need a daddy anyway cause daddys are mean. 

With this the man sat the letter down blinking away tears that were threatening to fall down his face tracing the clearly rushed handwriting with his finger and reading it over and over again, disbelieving of the horrors written on the page. With this he had broken his fourth and final rule, never show true emotion and most of all never let those emotions control you because it kills business. She was out of time and he was her last hope. Sitting down in deep thought on his expensive sofa, the man desperately trying to recover from the barreling emotions that had hit him. The sofa cost ten grand, a luxury that he had easily afforded with his rules. Rule One: Don’t sell yourself cheap. A life was worth at minimum 50 grand. 
Returning his eyes to the foot of the page he stared at the curved signature before slowly crumpling the paper up into his clenched fist. A fiery anger bubbled in his stomach and overtook his brain and thoughts as he stared at dark blotches on the paper where the maybe eight year old's tears had splashed. He thought back to his own father who had been a ghost of a man throughout his childhood, never really there and when he was, ruling his life with a strict and unforgiving demeanor. Somewhere all those years after his childhood, he began wondering if his father had even existed with all the absences he had left in his life. Then he began thinking about the little girl who was on the brink of losing her shot at a future, scrounging together loose change just to get rid of her father. 
Rule one: Don’t ever sell yourself cheap. This rule had never once been broken since he created it and he had never planned to break it, but then as he sat wrinkling the paper thoroughly, a slow realization crept upon the man sending shivers through his spine. Some kills are worth more than money and expensive material items. It was at that moment that the man realized he would rid himself of that materialistic rule for good. This time the job would cost $47.25. This time the job wouldn’t be worth just money. This time the job would be worth the young girl’s life. 


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