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Michigan Jones: Hit Man: Chapter 2 Michigan Jones: Hit Man: Chapter 2
by Asa Butcher
2008-07-05 08:55:11
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Yeah, the good mood was gone, replaced by the usual negative emotions I had subscribed to a long time ago. On top of that, I was unemployed again. Thankfully that doesn’t last long these days, it’s a booming industry, especially since the business was overhauled and legalized a few years back. Amazing, we got unions, I pay tax and all that shit, I think I even have a fucking dental plan; guess it brings a new meaning to ‘death and taxes’.

I caught some radio jingle a few weeks back, while waiting for a mark to leave his girlfriend’s place, this woman starts singing their slogan: “You got the dough? We’ll put ‘em six-feet below!” I couldn’t help but smile at the brazenness of it all, the business is commercialized and we’ve been reduced to fucking salesmen scraping together a living.

Back in the good ole days, only people who you wanted to know of your existence knew, the others only knew within a few minutes of their death, but otherwise I was ghost. No past, no future, no identity and all that shit. Now, I’m listed in the fucking Yellow Pages and get recommendations from Directory Enquiries.

I never thought I’d be stuck in this career, a career with no promotion prospects, just demotion to a grave via bullet, knife, explosive or whatever creative manner some guy conjures up…least I’ve got an insurance plan. I guess the most depressing aspect of the job is the paperwork, I don’t know how they managed to tie us up in so much bureaucracy. We have so much paperwork, forms, indemnity, responsibility releases and god knows what else.

The bar I find myself in is a dump, but it has some charm. A whole city full of bars that should be shut down, I guess the continual rain gives them hell with the damp, but I’ll leave that to the structural engineers or whoever. I finger a shot glass filled with some bitter spirit, the colour of which reminds me of those blue urinal tablets, the smell ain’t that different either.

This blue shit on an empty stomach is the perfect pick-me-up after a day like today, or is it night? I damned if could tell the difference even if I was sober. I ain't an alcoholic and I don't abuse narcotics, I have this medical disorder that leaves my nerves permanently wired. The docs gave it a name once, but I can't remember my own fucking name sometimes, let along some eight-syllable monster of the English language.

The docs really wanted to help me, but I knew I was just some rare case that they wanted to observe. They gave me a freaking box with seven small compartments filled with a multitude of pills that had to be taken before breakfast, lunch and dinner, I think. Days of the week! Damn, if it wasn't enough that my nutrition comes from shots of that blue shit I had to keep a diary. I guess the pills never had a chance to work their magic or fulfil their potential. I quit the whole thing and pop a pill whenever I remember, it seems to work most of the time, the whole thing gets on my nerves…damn I hate irony.


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