The Hit

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
About a hit man a few minutes after the hit...

Submitted: November 14, 2018

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Submitted: November 14, 2018

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“The Hit”

 

This is what

he does

you can’t pick

what your good

at

he tells himself

as he unscrews

the silencer

on his gun

a small .22

automatic

the perfect

up close and

personal firearm

for a quick

tap

to the back

of the head

quiet

no exit wound

the bullet

just bounces

around inside

leaving no mess

behind,

after picking up

the single shell

casing

he stands over

the dead man

who except for

the small hole

under his hair

line

in the back

of his skull

looks like he

is just relaxing

in his over

stuffed chair

his left hand

still holding the

tumbler

of 21 year old

single malt scotch 

on the wide

armrest

of the chair

his dark brown

eyes

staring out the

glass walls of

his penthouse

suite

at the ever

changing dance

of the city

lights below,

he drops the

silencer

into the coat

pocket

of the hand

tailored suit

that is hanging

off the corner

of the arm

chair

a calling card

for a job

well done

by one of the

industries best

making the gun

untraceable

after the bullet

passes through it

leaving a groove

pattern

unique to only

the silencer

which is important

cause this gun

has a lot of

sentimental value

to him

more so then

the dead man

in the chair

he wouldn’t have

wasted a bullet

on him

if he thought

he would have

to toss the

gun,

he walks over

to the guy’s

record collection

quite surprised

at the diversity

of music genres

it contains

he pulls out

a couple of

records at random

and settles on

a little light

jazz

sets the record

on the turntable

hits the power

button

and brings the

music to life

reaching over

he takes the

glass

from the dead

man’s hand

breaking a basic

rule

in his standard

protocol

the ice from

his untouched

drink

just starting to

melt

as he takes

a slow measured

drink

trying to savor

the taste

of this high

quality scotch

unable to understand

why someone

would ruin it

by adding ice

he puts his

nose to the

glass

lightly breathing in

it’s distinct

aroma

a strong peaty

smell

standing next

to the high

glass walls

he looks down

the streaking colors

of the city

fighting their way

through the darkness

of the night

the soft sound

of jazz

heightening  

the brilliance

of the lights,

he rolls the

scotch around

in his mouth

before swallowing

the last of

it

sliding the tumbler

back into the

still warm fingers

of the dead

man’s hand

the corners of

the two large

ice cubes

rounded

as they lean

against each other

in the now

empty glass,

he lifts the

needle

off the current

track

that is playing

with his gloved

hand

killing the power

before returning

the record

to its sleeve

and filing it

back where it

belongs,

he picks up

the bottle of

21 year old

single malt

pouring just

enough into

the glass

to float the

ice

then returning the

bottle

to the table,

he takes a

brief look around

no subtle mistakes

nothing left

out of place

a few liberty’s

had been taken

that shouldn’t have

been

trying to get

inside the head

of a man

who now has

a bullet

rattling around

inside of his

a practice

he has partaken

of

on more than

one occasion,

he checks out

his look

in a hallway

mirror

straightening his

tie

and pulling on

the cuffs

of his long

sleeve dress

shirt

through his jacket

his gun

tucked away

in the curve

of his back

keeping the

slim line of

his suit

undisturbed

as he reaches

for the door

knob

of the front

door

slipping into the

well-lit hallway

removing his gloves

as he enters

the elevator

calmly walking

through the lobby

on to the

street outside

where in a

breath

he is gone

blending in

with all the

other creatures

of the

night…

 

Tom Allen…11-10-2018… 


© Copyright 2019 Tom Allen714. All rights reserved.

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