"We could do it."
"Are you sure? Like, really sure? Because we don't need this fucked up."
The fat guy might not need this fucked up, but he definitely needed a bath.
"Yeah, we could do it."
***
Funny how confidence is so fleeting. Maybe even more fleeting than love. Hell, perhaps both are just myths perpetuated by the aberration known as sentient thought. Or something like that. This is an awful lot to think about during a premeditated murder. Should we have charged more than $5000? $5000 seems kinda cheap now that I'm staring at the guy. I mean, what did he do to me? Sure, he supposedly did something bad to somebody... something worth $5000. But maybe the victim is just an asshole with money to spend and people to have killed.
Ugh. I'm thinking I need a new line of work.
***
"You agreed to what?"
My brother didn't seem happy. We're both former soldiers and we've both killed before, so I figured taking the job wouldn't be a big deal to him. Guess I was wrong.
"A hit." Saying that made me sound so official at the time. Like in the movies. Maybe I should've taken up acting. I've got the looks. Not being able to act never seemed to stop anybody in Hollywood before.
"You're a fucking idiot."
I suppose I was.
***
No, I definitely am. I'm sweating a lot and my brother's asleep in the spotter position. I don't have the heart to wake him up. He'd probably just try to talk me out of this, anyway. But we need the money. Our GI Bills ran out a while ago. Then our unemployment did, too. This economy sucks, you know. Of course, it doesn't help that he has a bum leg and I'm lazy. Yes, I'm lazy. I admit it. You want a cookie, mom? Funny how every thought before a kill seems to be a confession. I'm still thinking too much.
I'd really like a chocolate eclair right about now. Mental note: bring snacks next time.
***
"So you're not going to help?"
"Are you fucking out of your mind? We're not killers."
"Sure we are. You've got more confirmed kills than I do." My logic was so spot on at the time. I should've joined a debate team. The expression on my brother's face was priceless. He was flabbergasted.
***
That's such a cool word, flabbergasted. I wonder if it's a compound word. You know, flabber and gast put together with a past tense "ed" for good measure.
Oops. There's the target. Coming out of his multi-million dollar house in Lake Tahoe and heading to his six-figure car. Lots of trees here at Tahoe. Beautiful area. Bad place to live if someone wants to kill you, though. Too many places to hide. Fighting a war here would suck. I suppose B-52s could just napalm the place, but too many hippies would complain about napalm. Including my brother.
I don't remember how I finally convinced my brother to come help me, even though he's technically not helping right now, snoozing the day away with marks on his face from sleeping on his binoculars. It probably wound down to familial guilt or something. Yeah, that was it.
I guess I better pull the trigger before the target reaches his car.
Okay. Breathe. Blink out the blur. Check the wind. Verify distance. Here we go.
"Let's go get doughnuts."
My brother's voice startles me. But out of anything he could've said, that is the best line ever.
"Leave the gun. We don't need it."
The second best line.
Later, as we enjoy our coffee and doughnuts, we both wonder if the rich dude who just bought a latte and a bear claw knows just how lucky he is. I'm tempted to ask him. But I'll let him finish reading his paper. It's a nice day, after all.
