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Michigan Jones: Hit Man: Chapter 6 Michigan Jones: Hit Man: Chapter 6
by Asa Butcher
2008-08-02 09:38:45
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The rain fell heavily as I continued to put as much distance between Milton's and myself. I wasn't running from the law, I had all the right paperwork and the hit was all above aboard, but then was it? I hadn't felt this way about a professional hit since I assassinated that priest - that one certainly fucked me up in the head for a while - but this was different… maybe my conscience had grown tired off being shoved away into a corner and wanted to stretch its legs… oh man.

I continued to weave my way through the crowds, unsure of my destination, moving like an automaton, and almost unaware of the rain pouring down my face. I looked down at my hand and was surprised to see the gun still there, water glistening on the barrel and looking utterly surreal. It took my brain a moment to order my hand to holster the gun, and then I flexed my hand to relieve the now aching muscles. I'd gripped the gun so tight the grip had imprinted itself deeply on my palm.

Goddamn! What is happening to me? I had to get off the main street and find somewhere to calm the fuck down and collate my thoughts, perhaps even drown them in whisky. Surprise me. It surprised her and me. Why the hell do women look so beautiful when they are surprised? Demigod wasn't the first woman I've killed, but she, but her, oh man! What is happening to me?

I wiped the rain from my eyes and ran my hand through my hair, which was soaked either from the downpour or sweat - I didn't know which. I needed a drink, a pill, anything just to bring me down a few notches, return my ass to Planet Normal, anything to stop those translucent eyes from burning into my memory and reigniting my long forgotten conscience. Guilt? Regret? Both? No, she had asked to be killed, paid, understood everything, there was nothing to feel guilty about.

But why… no, I never ask that. It is, it was, none of my goddamn business and against the law; that was her private matter, a personal decision. I was just hired to perform a professional job, to carry out her wishes, just like fucking taxi driver… they never ask why you want to go somewhere, they just do it. Professional. Stay detached. Live your own life. Stay your own course. Oh man… but why. I need to know, maybe then I can discover she was a bitch, a child molester or evil incarnate and my conscience can the shut the fuck up.

Yeah. Evil, she was evil; I mean those eyes weren't normal. I did her a favour by sending her back to hell. I did the world a favour; it's a better place now. What is this shit I'm peddling to myself? Get a grip on yourself, Jonesy. You are the best and you are letting one little hit, one routine job, get under your skin - yeah, but nothing gets under this skin… it is like leather, impenetrable.

Why did you pick me, Demigod? Why me out of the hundreds of professionals scuttling about this city? You could have lifted any slime-covered rock and found some willing shit to pull a trigger for cash… hell, you could have walked down the wrong street at the right time and had it done for free. Why be killed by a hit? Why choose me? Why say 'surprise me' and then looked fucking surprised? Why so many whys? I needed some answers and I was going to get them.


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