Author's Note: Yep. It took nearly a year for the next installment. I apologize to those who read and reviewed. This year has been extremely busy and my computer was busted for awhile. You will probably notice a slight change in writing style. Thing's aren't as choppy, paragraphs are longer, etc. Hopefully this makes Death on Display easier and more enjoyable to read. Any and all feedback is wanted and appreciated. Thanks for reading.


I was checking the dumpster for my payment. I was expecting a fairly nice sum. She had been a decent looking brunette. I knew someone would've really liked it. I wasn't expecting $20,000. That wasn't even including the $1,000 for the brunette video.

You see, there were 2 envelopes. One with my payment and another, stranger envelope. This one held the $20,000 and a typed letter. I read the letter once. Twice. Three times. Were they serious?

I bet you're really fucking surprised.

Well no shit.

The money is all yours. And there's $30,000 more if you do us a favor. That's right. You can make $50k just by doing a little task for us. It's nothing new or crazy. We just want you to kill a lovely little blonde. Make it graphic, make it gory. Make it fucking horrendous. Who knows? If it's amazing enough you might get yourself a little bonus.

You have 3 days.

Oh, and she better be gorgeous. No addicts. Not even an alcoholic. GORGEOUS.

And with that the letter ended. I reread it a couple more times. $50k? Maybe more? For something I did almost every night? I was definitely on board. The only thing that worried me was this blonde business. Gorgeous girls were hard to find and even harder to kill. They were the "diamond in the rough" so to speak. They'd be noticed and they'd be missed. If your gorgeous prostitute that got you thousands a night suddenly went missing you noticed. I was up for the challenge. With that kind of pay I was willing to take my business to a whole new level.

I headed back home with the cash in one pocket and the letter in the other. I had a feeling I'd need to be reminded that I wasn't dreaming.

A couple hundred Benjamins sitting in my pocket didn't hurt either.

I stopped at a fast-food restaurant on my way home. The very one I had applied to actually. I frequented the place. I liked to see who they had hired instead of me. Funny thing about the fast food industry. Seems you can only get a job if you're a teenager or an absolute wreck of a human being. I was neither and they had settled on the former instead of the latter. My successful competitor was some 16 or 17 year old kid. He worked hard and was friendly enough. I could see why they picked him. Especially in this part of town. It was hard to find a kid who wasn't in some sort of ridiculous pseudo-gang or was already addicted to one of the many widely available drugs. This kid was probably working to get out of this place. I didn't blame him.

I was finishing up my burger when I noticed her. The blonde. The fucking gorgeous blonde. But what caught my eye wasn't necessarily her looks. It was more the way she carried herself that let me know she was the one. First thing I noticed was she wasn't a junkie. She had none of the nervous twitches, didn't throw any suspicious glances at her surroundings. And she wasn't a lost tourist. She didn't like frightened, like she was about to be raped on every corner like every visiting woman believes. Instead she had this unsure energy about her. Like she was trying something new but felt she'd mess it all up. Which leads me to the next thing I noticed. Her clothes.

She was wearing some cheap clothes and dressed like a prostitute. I'm talking Hollywood-film prostitute. The kind in thigh-high boots, a vinyl miniskirt, and a tank top made for a 6 year old. It was that bad. She bad either been watching too many movies or too many music videos.

But you see, that nervous energy (and those clothes) meant one thing. She was new. It didn't take long to learn how this place functioned. It was good news to me. I had found my target.