The hitman looked at his target. The target was sitting at a food stall at a road that leads to Kerinchi LRT station and Menara Telekom, waiting for something or someone. It doesn’t matter. He’ll be dead in a few minutes anyway.
He waited, and watched as a woman walked out of the Kerinchi LRT station. Nothing to too outstanding about her, she looks just like an office worker. He watched as a waitress brought a plate of food to where his target sat, before the woman approached the same table and sat down next to him,and began chatting with him in earnest.
Damn, he thought. More work. No big deal,though..
He put on his surgical mask, gloves and cap, and stepped out of the car, walking slowly towards his target. To everyone else, he looked like a guy with a bad cough, his hands in his light grey jacket, walking down to the LRT station.
His eyes scanned the environment, looking at any potential threats that might foil him. So far, so good. No cops, no security guards, just a bunch of people having a late night meal. Nothing to worry about, his face is all covered up, and they’ll be too scared to talk anyway.
There’s a reason he’s still here, you know.
He slowly approached his target,who was chatting and laughing with his companion, oblivious of his upcoming fate. Between laughter, he would chow down on his meal, with looked to be some kind of a pale koay teow dish. It doesn’t really matter anyway.
He felt the gun in his pocket, fingers running against cold, hard steel. It’s a nice, familiar feeling, the type of feeling that’s he’s used to after so many years on the job. One last touch, though, he realized, and fished out a pair of earplugs and jammed it into his ears. It’s going to get loud.
He calmly walked to his target, zooming in on the man still chatting and laughing with his dinner companion, clearly having the time of his life. How nice, he thought to himself. At least his last moments will be full of happiness.
His hand still gripping on the pistol, he unlatched the gun’s safety, wrapping his fingers on the trigger, the familiar feeling of having his fingers wrapped around a gun returning back to him. Resisting the urge to simply shoot on the spot, probably giving the target time to escape and wasting his bullets,, he slowly walked and approached the man’s table.
Having noticed his arrival, the man looked up at him, a look of surprise and wonderment on his face. Just as he was about to open his mouth, he quickly brandished his gun, and fired into his target.
One. Two. Three.
That should do it, he thought to himself as he looked at his target’s face, ruined by the bullets, the now-lifeless body leaning on the cheap plastic chair. Without wasting another second, he quickly turned the gun to his companion, who started crying and screaming and pleading for her life.
Same old, same old.
Just as he pulled began pulling on the trigger, she quickly leaped up from her chair, but he was faster. Years of experience had made it easy for her to anticipate any move. Before she could plan her next move, he quickly threw the table aside, and without missing a beat, emptied three more bullets into her, watching as blood spurted out of her body, and she slumped back into her chair, missed, and fell on the ground.
The witnesses, mainly the cook, a few of the serving staff and a handful of customers, stood there in stunned silence, terrified by what was going on, fearing that they could be next.
He quickly ignored them and ran back to his car, a nondescript Proton Waja with fake license plates. He quickly stashed the gun in the glove compartment, started up the engine, and drove off. He had it all figured out, drive into Federal, duck into the junction before MidValley and drive off into Seremban, try not to get the attention of the police, and get rid of the mask and gloves, as usual.
Just as he drove past Menara Telekom, he took out an old, battered mobile phone from the dashboard, and with one hand on the wheel, called a familiar number.
“Yes?” a voice cracked up.
“It’s sorted.” he replied, his eyes still on the road, “had to take an extra order, though.”
The person at the other line exhaled, before saying “No problem,” and hung up.
He smiled, satisfied at another job well done, secure in the knowledge that he will receive his pay as usual. It wasn’t the pay that kept him on this job, though. It was the power, really. He remembered what it felt like, the first time he did it. The feeling of power, of knowing when a person is going die, hearing them plea, cry, maybe even attack him in vain, just to get a few more minutes of living, all falling into deaf ears, as he pulled the trigger, firing bullet after bullet into their bodies, and watch as their lives leave their bodies, leaving them as empty husks of flesh and blood, soon to become worm food.
To him, the real reward of this job was being the carrier of death, accomplished with cold steel and hot lead. Snuffing out people who probably had years ahead of them, quake in fear as they knew their lives have been reduced to mere minutes...good times.
It was only then he realized he was driving straight into a divider. He quickly snapped out of it, and in a state of panic, he accidentally pressed the accelerator instead of the brakes, and the car collided with the divider, and threw him out of the car, and into a patch of grass.
He felt pain all over his body, and he writhed in agony, unable to move. He felt that all the bones in his body has broken to pieces, and he felt blood flowing out of his body.
He felt something he hasn’t felt in a long time.
Writhing in agony and feeling cold sweat trickling down his body, he screamed for help, just for someone to stop and get him off this patch of grass, but they mostly drove by, peering at him for a moment to satisfy their curiosity.
As he cursed the passers-by, he felt a new presence looming over him. Peering up, to his horror, it was someone who was dressed up just like him. Same shoes, jeans, jacket, cap, and still wearing the same mask covering half his face. The man walked up and crouched beside him.
“Well, well,” he said, “how the mighty have fallen.”
“Wh-who are you?” he asked, dread creeping up his spine.
“Well,” the man replied, “I’m you. Or rather, the person you assume to be."
“Yes,” Death smirked, humor in his voice. “I’m death, in person.”
“Why?” he croaked.
“Why?” Death chuckled, shaking his head. “Your time’s up, friend. You of all people should know better."
“I just didn’t think...I’d end up like this.” he groaned.
“Well, now you do.” Death said. “Frankly, you’re not that unique. You and your friends? We laugh at you, thinking you have a say on a person’s life. The truth is, you’re just an agent. We know. We decide when a person will expire, and how. You and your bullets and knives are mere toys compared to what we can do.”
The man relaxed, resigning to his fate. He, of all people should’ve known better than to fight. “I give up,” he croaked, “Before I go, I have to ask. Why are you dressed like this?”
Death laid his hand on the man’s chest. “I have my reasons,”
He then pressed on the man’s chest, and he felt a sudden burst of pain flashing through his body, before being enveloped into complete darkness.
Death looked at the now-lifeless body and smiled. He stood up and took out a notepad, and scratched out a name. “Well, that’s done. And I still have...” he counted over the list, and sighed. “Five more to go. Busy night.”
Death then walked towards the divider, ripping off the surgical mask as his slowly melted. His dark brown hair turned white, his taut skin became wrinkled, and his sweatshirt began to grow longer and longer, until it almost reached his ankles, and had the appearance of a hospital gown. He took one last look at the dead man in front of him, and shrugged.
All in a day’s job.