Shorty 1
Martin caressed the Glock and put it down on the table, kicking the footrest out and pushing back on his broken down recliner. Every day had grown long lately but today had been exceptionally bad. He hated collateral damage, especially kids. Sometimes the situation called for improvisation, which usually meant killing a wife or a girlfriend or, in this case, the guy's daughter. Yessir, today was bad. One of the worst.
The room was dark enough for Martin to ease into a light sleep. He dozed for about an hour when his cell jarred him awake. It was after eleven, and he knew who it was. He let it ring. After a few moments he picked up. "Yeah". Martin listened, frowned, hung up. He instinctively reached for the Glock, checked the magazine, fingered the trigger, momentarily slipping the barrel into his mouth, tasting oil. One small squeeze would solve everything, but it didn't come. He sucked the metallic grease as he pulled the gun free and returned it to the table.
The kid didn't die. A bullet to the head and she didn't die. Strangely, he was relieved. A part of him smiled inside. A single tear slipped to his cheek. He again lifted the pistol, determined to finish the job, hesitating with his mouth half open, breath like gun oil. He moved the Glock to his temple and thought of the girl, alive, with a wound in her temple. Martin moved the weapon to his chest. It was pointless. He never suspected that killing himself would be his toughest task.
The movies never got it right. Guys got hit on the head and fell unconscious. They got shot and fell dead. Nobody he shot ever just fell dead. Nobody. The movies glamorized killing, dying. Most of his targets continued talking or crying after he shot them and all of them shit their pants. A man dying was a sad and pathetic sight. They always suffered, even the ones shot in the head. He always shot them twice to shorten their death throe. Always. Except for the girl tonight. It was a sign.
Martin picked up his cell and stared at the touch pad, almost bringing himself to call. He tossed the phone on the table and grabbed the Glock.
To be continued........
Martin caressed the Glock and put it down on the table, kicking the footrest out and pushing back on his broken down recliner. Every day had grown long lately but today had been exceptionally bad. He hated collateral damage, especially kids. Sometimes the situation called for improvisation, which usually meant killing a wife or a girlfriend or, in this case, the guy's daughter. Yessir, today was bad. One of the worst.
The room was dark enough for Martin to ease into a light sleep. He dozed for about an hour when his cell jarred him awake. It was after eleven, and he knew who it was. He let it ring. After a few moments he picked up. "Yeah". Martin listened, frowned, hung up. He instinctively reached for the Glock, checked the magazine, fingered the trigger, momentarily slipping the barrel into his mouth, tasting oil. One small squeeze would solve everything, but it didn't come. He sucked the metallic grease as he pulled the gun free and returned it to the table.
The kid didn't die. A bullet to the head and she didn't die. Strangely, he was relieved. A part of him smiled inside. A single tear slipped to his cheek. He again lifted the pistol, determined to finish the job, hesitating with his mouth half open, breath like gun oil. He moved the Glock to his temple and thought of the girl, alive, with a wound in her temple. Martin moved the weapon to his chest. It was pointless. He never suspected that killing himself would be his toughest task.
The movies never got it right. Guys got hit on the head and fell unconscious. They got shot and fell dead. Nobody he shot ever just fell dead. Nobody. The movies glamorized killing, dying. Most of his targets continued talking or crying after he shot them and all of them shit their pants. A man dying was a sad and pathetic sight. They always suffered, even the ones shot in the head. He always shot them twice to shorten their death throe. Always. Except for the girl tonight. It was a sign.
Martin picked up his cell and stared at the touch pad, almost bringing himself to call. He tossed the phone on the table and grabbed the Glock.
To be continued........
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