Today had been a tough one, with intermingling feelings of boredom and the need to adventure.  The road ahead would be bright and shiny; a coastal breezy drive that would lead him straight to the door he had inquired about.  The problem now was merely how to acquire a car.  This wasn't so much a problem as it was an inconvenience: he had multiple cars at his disposal, he had only to touch a number on his phone to be connected with someone who had every connection. 

The underlying fear, of course, was what would happen after that car was acquired.  He would need to look his best  to ensure a successful business meeting, so a stop to the salon was in order.  A new salon, "Magnus",  had recently opened nearby his home, and seemed to cater to every need he would have:  manicure, haircut, shave, even laser whitening for those last-minute touchups.  He looked down at his hands and thought of the last time he had cared to have a manicure.  He meant to go at least monthly, but sometimes life got in the way of those sorts of comforts.  His looks definitely weren't slacking, and he was one of those types who seemed to always be professionally groomed by default..  Just over six feet tall, his features (cleft chin, deep brown eyes, long lashes, chiseled cheekbones) could definitely be considered striking.  The stubble of skipping a day of shaving was not abrasive, but definitely noticeable.  He thought of perhaps leaving it intact and cleaning up the edges, but he remembered she always liked him clean-shaven. 

He started.  Hands on the sink, he eyed his reflection in the marble-framed mirror.

What on earth did her past opinions have to do with his appearance now?

His quill scratched steadily away at the parchment, eyes rhythmically glancing between his work and reference books.  Mor’don purred away at his feet, his smoke grey coat blending into the shadows and the stone floor.  The fire in the hearth kept the darkness from overpowering the room and lent its’ inviting warmth to the two occupants.

He’d been there for hours, purple robes trailing onto the floor as at first he paced the length of the circular room.  Eventually his mind clicked into a familiar gear and a chair ushered itself into place, making him comfortable for the long night ahead.  Every once in awhile, different foods and drinks would appear at his side, never in the way, only fueling the clockwork mechanisms in his brain.

The last time anyone had seen him, his appearance was quite different.  His pinstripe suit was impeccable, hair parted properly, and his black Valentinos reflected life as he liked it – him seeing out, no one else seeing in.  The cigarette girl offered him another cigar that was gladly accepted, and he tipped her well.  Luckily a martini had just been set at his elbow as well.  Obscured in a haze of Cuban smoke and edging his way into gin-fueled oblivion, he attempted to bring himself back to present-day matters.

At the moment all he could focus on was the singing blonde in the red dress.  Tonight was not one of her cabaret nights, thankfully, though he was still going to send her the roses.  A beautiful bouquet for a beautiful woman should give her an anonymous ego boost.  He could see through the glittering diva and knew that somewhere in there still laid a scared young girl.  She had every right to be afraid, although she had no idea of the plots potentially sealing her fate.

One of my more relaxing pastimes involves cleaning my guns.  I only own three, but that’s okay.  The .22 is for fun, the .45 is for show, and the 9mm is for business.  I notice that my cleaning cloths are running low again.  It’s funny how quickly they run out – you can only use one for a few swipes and then need a fresh one, especially after an afternoon of work or play.

 
This morning was spent at the bistro, sipping coffee from a mug that was almost obscenely large.  They’ve brought out the Halloween supply already, which for some reason are enough for three cups at once.  This means the waitress doesn’t come around much, but I’m a regular there so she knows her tip will be more than enough anyway.  The ones who have worked there over a year are cute enough, especially the brunette with the curly hair.  The blonde is there more often, and reminds me of someone I used to know, or thought I knew.

 
Insomnia tends to wreak havoc on any sort of a schedule, so I just stay awake as long as possible, shoving caffeine down my gullet and hoping for a quick death.  The beginning of the day was my favorite time; always has been.  The world is still groggy and nursing a hangover, the mist is creeping away but taking its’ sweet time unthreading from between the alleys.  Breakfast tastes better when there are fewer patrons, and you don’t need words to converse.

 
She told me she would call.

 
I thought about the two people I had killed last week.  No one knew; it had barely been a blurb in the papers.  It was in a part of town where drive-bys were rare, but not unheard of.  I thought of the sound the boy’s backpack made as it hit the ground.  He made no real noise, didn’t even scream.  Quick and painless, that was the death for real Americans.

 
Once, on the other side of the world, there was another restaurant I used to sit at for breakfast.  It’s not that making my own breakfast is impossible – merely inconvenient.  They had the best coffee of them all.

 
Her dress sparkled in the spotlights, one strap slipping over a shoulder, blonde strands glittering around that angel face.

 
It hurt too much to think of her in that place.  She called it entertainment; I call it sleaze.  She always reminded me of Jessica Rabbit, or Marilyn Monroe, a cartoon diva with a killer gaze and those long red dresses.  She smoked her cigarettes with one of those long-stemmed black holders, and her lipstick never moved.  You thought you really knew a person, but you never really know a dame like that.

 
I’d been over to her place once.  It smelled like perfume you would see on illuminated display in one of those French shops, and seemed too big for that one woman.  She had a maid, of course, and a winding set of marble stairs.  Her entrances were most important to her, I think.  She would make you wait for ten minutes, pacing the floor in the foyer.  Then you would see the door open at the top of the stairs, and there she would be.  They even put in lighting to set it off perfectly, that natural track lighting that makes you look fantastic no matter what.  The only time I was there, she came wafting down the stairs – that’s the only way to put it.  Wafting, in a cloud of perfume and female resonance, a martini glass in one hand and that long-stemmed holder in the other.  Every step took a year, and you lost the reason why you were there.

 
Why, how gracious of you to simply stop in… uninvited.

 
I’m not sure how long the waitress had been at my side.  My mind was a thousand years in the past, and this broad wanted to know if I needed anything?  Ah, but she was new.  It was acceptable.  I smiled at her and said I was fine.  The tricks we learn to keep them on their route, it’s amusing how rehearsed it all can be.  She buzzed off like a good robot, but my morning felt hollow.  It was time to head home.

 
Home also felt hollow.  I put on some Banu Gibson, perhaps the worst thing to do.  Her voice went straight through me and all I could smell was cigarette smoke and fancy perfume.  After straightening the art on the walls, I had a glass of water and sat down, weak-kneed.  It was time to clean the guns… and make some hotel reservations.

The sun is directly in her eye. The two vicodin she's swallowed an indeterminate amount of time ago are kicking in. Her heart is beating sluggishly and her lips are numb.

It's still Wednesday. The interview is still in twenty minutes, and she is still early. The secretary glances up at her and gives that false "you'll-be-waiting" smile, all teeth and shark-like glances. She's not really even sure how she found her suit, or managed to put it on.

Whoever said being a loan shark was easy needed a swift kick to the temple, she thought randomly. The sweater she had on was just a touch on the uncomfortably warm side, then again the hot flashes weren't really helping.

"Mr. Drexler will see you now, dear."

The office door opened, the receptionist waved her in. As her shoes touched his new carpet, the door clicked shut behind her and the future was laid out clearly. She would be just fine. His business suit was crisp and his hair was slicked back. Her hands did not shake when she handed him the requested resume. His smile was warm and bright - hers was the same.

"Susan. Very pleased to meet you... I've heard so many good things."

It was not an entry to a discussion she wanted to have. Her ex-boss was dead - but the quality of her work, however, was still flawless and they both knew it. They also knew that this meeting was an unnecessary formality, more for paperwork than actual interview purposes.

Halfway through the interview she managed to vomit all over herself, in the classiest manner possible.

"Please, dear, try to get a grip on yourself before your first shift on Monday."

--1.

Squinting, she brushed the hair out of her eyes – the sun was too bright even through the cheap sunglass lens, and the headache from earlier was coming back.

“How cool would it be if I was on time for once?” she thought. She was half an hour late getting home; no real plans at the moment but the sense of being rushed through the day was more evident than normal. The guy next to her kept giving the sideways glances that she ignored perfectly. He was slightly under her height preference, but his skater style worked nicely. Maybe the bus would be full enough where she would end up sitting next to him.

--2.

The girl had beads of sweat on the side of her face, just two small ones, but she was cute enough to still look classy. Brown hair, mod cut, white rimmed sunglasses, decent body. Nothing special or over the top; but not bad on the eyes either. His backpack started to slip so he slung it over the other shoulder.

When he got closer to the house, it was going to be time for a stop at Starbucks – something iced and preferably chocolate flavored. He allowed himself to think for a moment what might happen if the girl ended up sitting next to him. The next stop, conveniently, was 20 minutes from this one, so if seating arrangements failed there was always his PSP.

--3.

I saw it immediately: Too good for her, too good for him, that was why I hated all of them anyway. Growing up the youngest in a family of ten proved my theory. I was never cute enough for anyone and proved terrible at everything except education. It was easier to remain quiet and plot away in the back, earning top grades while everyone else spent too much money on cars and contraceptives.

This was as good a place as any to start, I figured. There were only four of us today, counting the old woman and her book. The two teens were standing close enough together and far enough away.

The use of the silencer on the woman was further helped by my loud coughing sneeze. The girl turned to bless me, and her face went white. The boy stood in shock as he watched the girl and what could have been crumple into a growing pool of blood. He had barely looked up to register what was going on before the third and final bullet pierced his left eye.

I ambled away over the grassy hill, thinking that an iced white mocha would finish my day off nicely.