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Authors: Shane Kuhn
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fly—a huge, lazy black sucker that will travel hundreds of miles to dine exclusively on rotting flesh—buzzed past my ear and crawled under the door.
I stared at that door for a long time, imagining what Eva looked like in there, bloated with her face twisted in some final expression of agony and terror. And I thought long and hard about killing Bob. But when I walked out into the street, I felt like I was surrounded by buildings that seemed to be closing in on me, mocking me with their power, reminding me that they could crush me like an ant. At that moment I realized how insignificant I was, how utterly vulnerable and exposed. I would never kill Bob, but he had the power to erase me and what little identity or existence I had managed to carve out after all these years.
So I called the number on the slip of paper.
I know what you’re thinking. Sex with prostitutes is not only disgusting, but it’s a sign of failure, an overt confession that you no longer have the sand to attract even the most desperate of potential mates. And you’re right. But not in the way you think. The truth is that when your whole world is already a total fabrication and you’re a liar to everyone you meet, intimacy with an emotional cripple who has no feeling from the waist down is a primordial kick in the nuts. Fucking for real gives you hope that you can love someone, or be loved, on any level. Faking it will empty you like a gutted fish. As soon as I learned this, I burned the slip of paper.
The truth is that I am a killer. What I do is evil. And the fact that I brought a normal person into my carnival of madness is unforgivable. If I could apologize to Eva, I would. I can blame Bob all I want, but I am the one who opened that door. And by doing so, I killed her.
----
Rule #6: Don’t kid yourself.
I see assassins in movies all the time saying the people they kill have it coming. That’s Hollywood’s way of attempting to make people like us “relatable” and “sympathetic.” Look at Grosse Pointe Blank . John Cusack actually says that to Minnie Driver.
“If I show up at your door, chances are you did something to bring me there.”
That may be true and it often is. Look at the partner I am trying to zero in on at Bendini, Lambert & Locke. He is selling out the names of people who, for better or worse, are helping the police bring in people even more evil than me—people who truly erode the foundation of society and destroy every form of innocence. Without question, that fucker has it coming. Problem is, God almighty is notgoing to strike him down with a lightning bolt. Unlike Job—who never did a damn thing wrong—this guy will not be attacked by a swarm of flesh-eating locusts on Central Park South. I will take his life, most likely in a brutal way that will damage me further and damage the people who have to clean up the mess. There is nothing good or noble or even cool about that. We are not antiheroes with a silver lining. And we are sure as hell not relatable or sympathetic.
So don’t kid yourself. If you’re going to do this, you can’t ever try to justify it. You are the bad guy, and that is your role. Without you, there is no benchmark for judging good guys. We are the yin. Civilians are the yang. If you keep your role pure and undiluted by everyone else’s reality, then you will survive to the ripe old retirement age of twenty-five. Don’t ever forget that purity might save you from a bullet, but it won’t save your soul. Only a lightning strike can do that.
----
I spend the next week and a half working closely with Alice, gathering what intel I can. She is fairly liberal with office gossip but seems oddly cautious about revealing anything business-related. I am convinced it’s because she is threatened by me and wants to protect the associate job she just landed. So I decide to try to work the gossip angle, goading her to let me in on her secrets, convincing her that I give a shit. However, since we are
I stared at that door for a long time, imagining what Eva looked like in there, bloated with her face twisted in some final expression of agony and terror. And I thought long and hard about killing Bob. But when I walked out into the street, I felt like I was surrounded by buildings that seemed to be closing in on me, mocking me with their power, reminding me that they could crush me like an ant. At that moment I realized how insignificant I was, how utterly vulnerable and exposed. I would never kill Bob, but he had the power to erase me and what little identity or existence I had managed to carve out after all these years.
So I called the number on the slip of paper.
I know what you’re thinking. Sex with prostitutes is not only disgusting, but it’s a sign of failure, an overt confession that you no longer have the sand to attract even the most desperate of potential mates. And you’re right. But not in the way you think. The truth is that when your whole world is already a total fabrication and you’re a liar to everyone you meet, intimacy with an emotional cripple who has no feeling from the waist down is a primordial kick in the nuts. Fucking for real gives you hope that you can love someone, or be loved, on any level. Faking it will empty you like a gutted fish. As soon as I learned this, I burned the slip of paper.
The truth is that I am a killer. What I do is evil. And the fact that I brought a normal person into my carnival of madness is unforgivable. If I could apologize to Eva, I would. I can blame Bob all I want, but I am the one who opened that door. And by doing so, I killed her.
----
Rule #6: Don’t kid yourself.
I see assassins in movies all the time saying the people they kill have it coming. That’s Hollywood’s way of attempting to make people like us “relatable” and “sympathetic.” Look at Grosse Pointe Blank . John Cusack actually says that to Minnie Driver.
“If I show up at your door, chances are you did something to bring me there.”
That may be true and it often is. Look at the partner I am trying to zero in on at Bendini, Lambert & Locke. He is selling out the names of people who, for better or worse, are helping the police bring in people even more evil than me—people who truly erode the foundation of society and destroy every form of innocence. Without question, that fucker has it coming. Problem is, God almighty is notgoing to strike him down with a lightning bolt. Unlike Job—who never did a damn thing wrong—this guy will not be attacked by a swarm of flesh-eating locusts on Central Park South. I will take his life, most likely in a brutal way that will damage me further and damage the people who have to clean up the mess. There is nothing good or noble or even cool about that. We are not antiheroes with a silver lining. And we are sure as hell not relatable or sympathetic.
So don’t kid yourself. If you’re going to do this, you can’t ever try to justify it. You are the bad guy, and that is your role. Without you, there is no benchmark for judging good guys. We are the yin. Civilians are the yang. If you keep your role pure and undiluted by everyone else’s reality, then you will survive to the ripe old retirement age of twenty-five. Don’t ever forget that purity might save you from a bullet, but it won’t save your soul. Only a lightning strike can do that.
----
I spend the next week and a half working closely with Alice, gathering what intel I can. She is fairly liberal with office gossip but seems oddly cautious about revealing anything business-related. I am convinced it’s because she is threatened by me and wants to protect the associate job she just landed. So I decide to try to work the gossip angle, goading her to let me in on her secrets, convincing her that I give a shit. However, since we are
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