America has a saying, all men are created equally. I found out the hard way that simply isn't true. So I took my services off shores.
"Alright. Give it your best." I tell my latest patron.
"Damn, that felt good. Thanks a ton." He thanks me.
"Alright, who's next? Fifty pounds and you get a freebie to the face. Anyone able to knock me out gets all my earnings from today!" I announce to the crowd gathering in this parking lot.
The numbers grow, some thinking I've got actors in the crowd to drum up business and that their "real" punch will be the one to take me down. Little do they know, the house always wins. Call me a whore, call me a con. I call myself Dino, the man who is parched.
I make my way to the bar only for the bouncer to step between the entrance and me.
"Can't you read?" He asks, gesturing to a neon sign that said,
"I'm Irish, I can't read." I answer with my thickest accent.
"Move along." He tells me.
"I've been moving, working and saving the bucks up all day for some cheap booze. And I aim to get some in the next minute, fella."
"Ain't gettin' it from here."
I took a step towards the door and the bouncer places a hand on my chest.
"This suit cost more than your entire life. I suggest not placing your mitts on it." I tell him.
"The beer ain't worth it boyo." He tells me.
I take another step forward. His patience runs out and a punch square to the face is thrown. He must've been one of the few who thought he had a "real" punch to give me. But I catch it with my forehead and shrug it off as I did with the dozen before him.
I grapple his arm and snap his elbow, slamming that dopey face of his into the railing on the patio outside. Then I go for the gun on his belt and press it to the back of his skull before his friends could react.
"Are you familiar with death, fella?" I ask him. "It's an unpleasant experience, no matter how you go about doing it. You feel a slight pinch at best and hours, possibly days, of agony at worst. But the thing that irks me the most are the stains. Blood is so much thicker than water or wine, and it's coloring. It just simply won't wash out."
"Alright guys!" He calls to his team. "The moment he guns me down, give this guy some real stains to wash out." Stubborn ol' fuck, he is.
Before coming here, I used to kill people for a living. Nothing personal, the price just had to be right. And how morbid is that? Putting a price on a soul. It boils down to how difficult is the target, how many of them there are, how would the buyer want it done. You can't just be messy like in the movies. And the heat that comes with each snuffing... This guys life just ain't worth it. The price ain't right.
"Tell ya what." I whisper to him. "I'll save ya the trouble and give you a freebie." I then put the barrel in my mouth and pull the trigger myself.
Silence follows and I feel the bliss of all functions in my body going limp. Like I'm entering a deep sleep. But moments later, judging by how everyone is screaming and the dope is still gawking at me on the floor, I come too.
My eyes lock onto him and he stumbles back, falling over the railing I had him pinned against. His friends backed up the moment I sat up. I toss the gun back to the bouncer.
"Nice piece you got there. Will definitely kill whatever you're aiming it at." I give my honest review before going into the bar.
"A shot of everything you got in a glass to go. ASAP." I place my winnings for the day on the counter.
The tender cowers in the corner from me like she just saw the devil. So I give her a scowl that told her to hurry with the drink or I'll show her hell. I get my concoction that'd kill a normal man and make my way for the exit, before police or worse arrive.
"Who are you?" The tender asks.
I don't know what she was expecting for an answer. God? The Devil? Part of me wishes I knew. Then remembered I didn't really care either way. But after thinking it over and tallying up the cost, I knew what to say for an answer.