Chapter 1

“My name is Mr. Black. My associate’s name is Ms. White. We are here to end you.”

Introducing oneself, no matter the circumstance is just common courtesy. It is important to let those you meet who they are interacting with, and what you expect from them. It is a form of special honesty that I, for one, highly value.

You can judge just about any apartment in a city by its elevators, and the elevator’s by their “ding.” It’s a social phenomenon that most people don’t really think about, elevators. I spend a lot of time in them, myself. Thinking. In order for people to live in any high rise structure, elevators are a necessity. You can’t always take the stairs. Furthermore, the sort of high-density concentration of people living together is a crucial component of the modern city. So, really, elevator’s make an important part of the modern city, and therefore, the modern lifestyle. I majored in sociology, can’t you tell?

I miss college. It was fun. If there’s anything I regret it’s not being able to go back. I suppose I could teach myself anything I wanted, or have White teach me, but I still miss the classes.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes. Elevators and their dings. This elevator was a good one, it had a melodic tone, High low, a minor chord, I think. I never did have a knack for detail, even when I was alive. Some elevator doors just jutter and stut open, mostly in run-down tenements, or hourly-charge hotels. But this was a penthouse suite. As the melody sounded to signal our arrival, we stepped out into a small landing, and into a locked door.

Kicking down doors is bad practice. It’s an obvious sign of forced entry. Subtlety was what we were all about. I knelt down and picked the lock. Lock picking is noticeable to the trained detective or locksmith, but most forget to check for it, or, if they do, we’re always long gone.

We swing open the door and step inside. A very excellent penthouse, how nice it is not to be disappointed.

We introduced ourselves to the portly man in the bathrobe, holding a fire poker between his trembling , fat little fingers.

White’s pupils narrowed to slits and her iris flashed yellow as she commanded, “drop the stick, fat man.”

If a big scary black man coming through your door uninvited dressed in a suit isn’t enough to frighten you into utter, pure, unadulterated terror, a little white girl in a business skirt and blazer pulling that sort of trick right behind the big black man will most certainly do so. The chubby fellow dropped the poker, and himself to his knees.

White stepped up and smiled wickedly at the chubby man before proffering her hand to me and asking, “Charges?”

I handed her a small manila envelope which she carefully unwrapped.

“Financial fraud, ruined all his workers by drowning 401k, Enron style stuff, right?”

“The official charge is ‘Enemy of the Lord’s Work,’” I mentioned.

She nodded as if she was carefully weighing all her options before pulling out a long, sharp butcher’s knife from her blouse. The man gave a little whimper of fear.

“I was never one for all this economic nonsense. You can take it from here, if you like.” She stepped away, twirling the knife between her fingers as she flounced over to an overstuffed couch and plopped down.

I went into the kitchen and grabbed a dining chair, and set it down in front of the fireplace. I grabbed the man by the lapels of his silk pajamas and dragged him into it. I shoved a clipboard into his face with a pen.

“Sign this.” I demanded. It was a confession of crimes, written in the form of a suicide note, as well as a will leaving his estate to various charities. Defiance flashed in his eyes, an old businessman’s fight to not sign anything he hadn’t read.

“Do it,” demanded White as she rose from the couch, flashing the cat-glint in her eyes while all the while still twirling the butcher’s knife. He hastily scribbled his signature as I pointed out the X’s to him.

“Good!” White praised before promptly slitting the man’s throat.

When slitting someone’s throat, is not the depth or intensity that matters. Simply severing the vocal cords is enough, and they sit close enough to the neck to be hard to miss. Sawing back and forth is mostly pointless, unless you’re looking to take a pike adornment home with you.

The blood poured down across the man’s fat chest, his mouth working in silenced, gurgled cries, like a fish out of water. White cocked his head back with the side of her knife after I fetched two wine glasses from the kitchen. As I filled both cups, White moved him carefully around so that the blood flowed rather than gushed. When I had finished, she let his head fall back before pushing the chair towards the fire place. Another flare from White’s eyes and the man was a pile of ash, in amongst the embers. Regular old ash. No DNA trace or anything, in case you CSI folks were curious.

“What should we drink to, Mr. Black?” asked White, licking her lips.

I held the glass up to the moonlight before saying “Let’s drink to the little guy.”

“Cheers to that.” She clinked her glass to mine and drank greedily, licking the rim of her mouth as she finished. She was slower with rapists, she savored them. Me? I drank it all the same, slowly, enjoying the fulfillment of a goal, small as it may be. Every glass, a celebration of my purpose.