There are a lot of crazy people out there. People who kill for fun. I’m not like those people. Sure, I occasionally put men down, but it’s not like I get any pleasure out of it. I’m a professional. Specifically, I’m a hitman, and a damn good one at that. Some people think I’m some sort of maniac because I kill people for money. I don’t see it that way. The way I see it, if someone wants someone else enough to hire me, then my target is going to die regardless of my actions. What’s the shame in making some money off someone else’s crime?
Back in 63, I got a call from this mob boss. He tells me that this politician, some guy named Jack, is dicking around with his business. He offers me a shitload of money to put a bullet in Jackie Boy’s head. I tell him, I can’t do that, there’ll be a fuckload of security, they’ll gun me down before I even get near the bastard. He tells me not to worry about it, say’s he’s got something that’ll allow me to kill Jack and get away scot-free.
Few days later, a big package arrives in the mail. Inside, there’s this black umbrella. I call up the mob boss and ask him what the hell I’m supposed to do with a goddamn umbrella. He laughs and tells me that it isn’t an umbrella. It’s a hunting rifle with some black fabric wrapped around it to make it look like an umbrella.
I look at the umbrella again and see the trigger. I am it at a wall and pull the trigger. Bang. Big ol’ bullet hole right in my apartment wall. My neighbor yells at me but I don’t give a shit. Why should I? After all, I’m gonna be rich.
Next thing I know I’m in Dallas, waiting for my target to show up. According to my employer, Jack was in town for some kinda political fundraiser. He was supposed to drive through town on his way to lunch. That’s when I was supposed to take my shot.
So there I am. It’s noon, I’m standing on some hot street corner waiting for my target to show up, and I am sweating my balls off. Even though it’s the middle of November, it’s seventy degrees outside without a cloud in the sky. I guess it has something to do with it being Texas.
Half an hour later, the crowd goes wild. Jack’s car is driving by when a gunshot rings out. The thing is, I haven’t even touched my gun. Law enforcement showed up and I got the hell out of there. I’m not stupid enough to be caught holding a gun next to a dead man.
I broke the umbrella in half and threw it in the river. The mob boss wasn’t thrilled with someone else taking his kill. I had to leave the country. Too much heat, ya know?
A few weeks later, I saw a paper talking about Jack. Turns out some Soviet lost his shit and shot him from a warehouse. A few days later, an old friend of mine got rid of the bastard as the cops were taking him to jail. He died of cancer a few years later.
Me? I took the mob’s money and retired. There are too many crazy people in this business for my liking.