Discipline and Murder Chapter 1

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                                                                               Discipline and Murder

        The street is dark, the alleys are darker.  The tall brick buildings casting shadows down on either side are the oldest in the city, many of them built when the small city was in it's infancy.  These few blocks had constituted what was once a one road town.  Though progress made it into something bigger, the population was still under fifty-thousand and on the freeway the city can be driven through in under ten minutes by a driver sticking his needle to the speed limit.  There are a few older bank buildings, and a few renovated and newer looking shops but they are all still side by side, most so close that the gap between them can't even be considered an alleyway.  The next street over is populated by shops and drunkards, the prospect of free booze drawing most of the bums onto that side of this downtown area.  That street is where the nightlife is centered, most of the bars in the city call that street home and it's denizens are mostly cheap hookers looking for a trick so they can get drunk or drunkards themselves trying to get lucky.   
          Lucky for me the only things moving at this time of night are rats and bums...and criminals.  Most of the drunkards won't be leaving the bars quite yet, as it's almost one o'clock in the morning.  Instead, they'll sit in the bar and down a few more pints of pale ale or a few more shots of whatever poisonous ethyl based alcohol they think they can stomach.  The police patrol cars will be making a shift change in about ten minutes, and the fresh faces in their ranks will stick to the freeways and bar hotspots, their blue and red lights only seen in this area when gunshots are reported.  People in this neighboorhood rarely call the cops, even for gunshots.
          *cough, cough*  A bum is strolling along the sidewalk, passing by the alley entrance.  The bottle of booze in his hand is covered by a bag that's as old and beat up as the rags that cover his body.  His hair and face aren't visible, but likely as greasy as the fried food he can't even afford to eat.  Sometimes I wonder how people get so down and out but then I realize that most people who are down and out only stoop to that level because they lose all their hope, and admit defeat.  The bum moves on, and I don't see him again for the rest of the night.  Good.
          This place stinks.  Even at night, without the heavy traffic, the smell of vehicle emissions permeates through the air.  The scent of exhaust fumes leeches itself into the brick of the buildings, it seems.  Careless city people, drive and drive and drive.  The ones that I don't understand are the fat ones, the ones that could be to the corner store and back on foot in the same amount of time it takes them to start their cars.
          Speaking of fat. 
          I see him and his wife, both obese, but unfortunately, not to the point of morbidity yet.  Yuck, these slobbish wasteful people.  It's so disgusting to see a man who was once an athlete walking down the street wearing pants whose waistline is hidden by an evergrowing belly and his former prom queen wife who now has a double chin and wears so much make-up that her fat face looks like a porcelain faced asian woman with too much blush and even more unflattering blue eye shadow above lashes that are clumped together from being attacked with a mascara applicator.  At least I get the joy of killing these greedy pound-foolish individuals, and I will do so without remorse.  My plan of attack is falling into place nicely, and when they no longer have the verb "living" in their description I will get a phone call from my handler in the morning and told how nice of a job I a did and how my disguise will bring me a nice bonus.
          The burlap "shirt" that I was wearing covered half my body; and sweaty, urine smelling, multi-color stained jogging pants covered the lower half.  Clown shoes on my feet are a joke, something to read about in the news when the cameras down here catch me.  I know I look just as silly as the two whales that I'm about to harpoon with my .357 revolver, but I don't care.  I amble across the street moving slowly enough that I don't draw attention to myself.  They open the glass front door to the glass fronted tattoo and t-shirt parlor that they are exiting from, and take a left down the wide sidewalk.  The door closes behind them and the owner, covered in tattoos and wearing a t-shirt proclaiming the awesomeness of Bon Jovi, locks it up behind them.  I'm about halfway across the dual-lane black topped street, my clown shoes encompassing the width across the two solid yellow lines that run down the middle.  As I reach the other side of the street the lights are off in the shop and the closed sign is lit up brightly.  I fall into step about a dozen feet behind my targets, who haven't even looked in my direction yet.  That's a good thing, and I follow them for about half a block until they reach a very large sport utility vehicle.
          "Wherrd Ah Poot Mah Bo'lle!" The slurrs in my voice are perfect as I approach the couple, who pause outside their 2009 H2 to look at me with disgust.  Ironic isn't it?  I reach inside of my burlap shirt and grip the handle of my weapon, drawing it quickly and aiming the short barrel in their direction.  I'm less than ten feet away, and as the gun is leveled at them I can almost hear their hearts drop into their stomachs as the fear and adrenaline kick in pushing their bodies into overdrive.  The man, who is in a perfect position to run around the front of the vehicle, gets it first. *Bang!* The loud shot echoes off the sides of the buildings all around us and blood and gore from the exit wound land on the dark grey hood and windshield of the vehicle.  His body drops to the ground in less than two seconds. 
          His wife is about to scream, but before she gets the chance I put a pill in her chest, aiming right underneath her neck and the only noise that comes out of her after that is the sickening gurgle of air coming out of blood filled lungs.  It takes three steps for me to get to the passenger door of their car and grasping the handle with my hand I find it unlocked.  Sitting on the passenger side seat is a black leather briefcase with a solid plastic handle and silver metal combination locks.   
          An easy job, with two pound-foolish individuals dead.  I keep walking with my loot, the next alley between two more tall brick buildings is my destination.  I turn right into the alley, toss the rags I was wearing into a large green dumpster with black lids and the word "WASTE" in big black letters stuck right on the front of it. 
          Stepping into slightly more light on the other side of the alley, I emerge onto a bar street.  Walking to my left puts me by the vehicle I stole earlier that evening.  Small and gray, with sleek contours and a cool jaguar hood ornament, the door opens easily as I pull the handle.  A cool, slippery, black leather seat and a seatbelt hold me in place as I start the car.  With a roar the engine comes to life, sliding effortlessly through what little traffic there is at this time, I'm out of town in less than ten minutes.
          Pulling the car into a park and ride and getting out, I turn around to face the car and take a small bottle out of the pocket of my pants.  It slides easily, the dress pants with the pleats on the front having ample pocket space for a few small items.  Following the bottle, a rag is next.  Nestled in between my thumb and the cap on the bottle the white rag is out of my pocket in the same motion that I used to pull the bottle out. I bring my other hand up and grab the rag, then use that hand to open the bottle. 
          Clear as water but much more potent, the accelerant leaks from the top of the bottle into the rag.  A gentle toss and the bottle is laying on the floor by the gas and brake pedals, the liquid inside spilling out onto the floor.  My hand goes back to my pocket and reaches way to the bottom, my fingertips feel the metal.  They wrap around the silver case and I draw the zippo out of my pocket.  The top flips open easily when the tip of my thumb applies pressure to the right spot, and to end the same movement my thumb spins the wheel which sparks the flint causing the tiny butane soaked wick to catch fire. I hold the zippo up to the bottom of the rag,  the flammable fluid on the rag flares up quickly.  With an easy toss, the rag lands on the front seat of the car.  I take the time to close the door.  By the time the glow is visible from the freeway I take back to the town I call home, I'm out of sight.

Read Chapter Two Now!

Discipline and Murder Chapter 2  (13+) A time in the life of a hitman. #1609955 by PenName