?I swear tuh God Hector..? Hank slammed a calloused palm to the back of his bald head while he peered down into the trunk. A black-haired Hector paced, occasional antsy glances sent towards the opened trunk of the car. Hector rubbed at his own chin, eyes pink from sleep deprivation and pours leaking copious amounts of sweat. His face was glazed, and his eyes showed the rings that were indicative of a man that was overtired.
?Look, you didn?t tell me I had to kill him. I only snatched him and the case!? Hector?s speech was fast and clumsy with defensiveness.
?You don?t receive a lump sum?a 20 grand just tuh scoop a guy up and hold him wit? the case. ? Hank was dealing with amateurs more and more.
Perhaps seniority in a field came with the inevitable obligation of teaching entry level operatives. His hand pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes shutting tight with the strain of frustration and disappointment. Hank had other projects, most of which either revolved in demolition or a screaming man hidden away in one of his cubby holes across the city. The man had his fingers double dipped in many honey pots.
Hector was not still, he kept looking around them almost anticipating the wrong person to waltz up at the wrong time. He wore a sweat stained flannel shirt and simple black Dickie?s pants with simple boots. Hank, in comparison, was wearing a plastic princess crown on his head, painted a bright metallic silver complete with hot pink gems and trio of plastic beaded necklaces around his neck. Could Hector have interrupted a tea party?
?I?m sorry, okay?! I just didn?t know what to do. I barely got him in the trunk. It was?? He was going to say, ?hard? or ?tough?. Hank didn?t have a capacity to process excuses. They were bothersome, and usually riddled with self-inflated lies.
Hank looked at Hector finally, protective mit on the edge of the opened trunk lid. Seconds after, the trademark taps and slaps rattled from the inside and Hank reached to his back. Producing a simple Colt Mustang XSP. Hank had bought fancier, lighter, higher grade weapons since he started out, and offered the feather light handgun to Hector.
?Well he?s here now.? Hank somehow maintained a straight face, probably because he had forgotten the princess crown on top of his head. Hector stared at the gun, the panic swelling within him as if the man clattering in the trunk had sprung free. The anxiety showed in his brown eyes as his hand barely extended toward Hank?s.
His blue eyes were cold and observant. He was a reader of hard men; it came with the reputation of coming from a hard place. A life of dutiful wickedness offered insight. One could read whether a person had what it took in the time of hesitation. Reluctance was a catalyst. The man was taking too long to take the gun. Hector?s inaction spoke volumes more than his explanation did.
Hector finally took the gun. Hank stepped back, arm spread toward the trunk. ?Shoot the fish in the barrel, and you keep the prize.? The man really was an amateur. Sympathy was in his face. Hank was almost 100% sure that this would be the man?s first kill. It was apparent in how the man stared and thought and hesitated.
Still, Hank had to have patience if he intended to keep an employee or two. The sour glow of the sun above tempted him.
Shoot Hector, just shoot him.
He?s been late to drop off points, and can?t even finish the job. He annoyed him with the excuses, lengthy and detailed with insecurities of a man fearful for his job and his life at the hands of his boss. He stood back though. Hank had such a hard time watching.
He would have shot them both and be back home in time to tuck Emarie in and tell her a story before her nap.
What scared him about himself was how easy it was to go from blood to budding father. A man that was a father to a little girl he loved. He could go through entire rooms of men, women.. and then come out the other door only needing a shower to forget all the red on his ledger. The ugly man had gotten prettier with the vitality of humanity, but he still had a few dents and wrinkles. Nevermind those scars.
His scars came in the form of ghosts. Standing, quiet ghosts and personifications of those he had lost, killed, and never saw again. But he did see them again. Alcohol kept them standing further away from his vision, but not completely gone. That was all he could get, and that would have to be enough.
Meanwhile, Hector?s hand that contained the gun trembled. The sun began to cut its heat past his pores and the fuse of his patience had run out. The man marched back to Hector and snatched the gun with expert quickness, as if he had threaded his motions with a fine needle in and out. He held the gun, and pressed it into the man?s neck, other arm encircling the man?s neck. It wasn?t entirely immobilizing, but Hector did not resist his efforts. He only got stiffer, Hank?s mouth speaking to his ears in a quiet tone.
?Heck, I?ll level with you. It ain?t evuh easy bein? new. But if you don?t shoot the fish in the barrel I can?t let you go home.? The innocent wording had quiet sobs coming from the man. Suddenly, Hector was as much of a victim as the man slamming his hands into the trunk. Hank looked back at the trunk, keeping his mouth by his ear. ?You wanna go home, right? I know I do. So why don?t you change yuh panties out and get the job done. Hear me?? Hank?s hand tightened around his neck, finally making breathing difficult but not completely removed. ?Get. It. Done.?
He threw the man away in a shove and offered the gun. ?Ain?t got all day.?
Hank didn?t enjoy killing, but he was friends with it. He shot the shit with the man in black with a crescent shaped sickle. He walked alongside Death, crossed paths enough times to be on first name basis. It did not phase him anymore. It isn?t death, but the imprint it leaves behind.
?Look, you didn?t tell me I had to kill him. I only snatched him and the case!? Hector?s speech was fast and clumsy with defensiveness.
?You don?t receive a lump sum?a 20 grand just tuh scoop a guy up and hold him wit? the case. ? Hank was dealing with amateurs more and more.
Perhaps seniority in a field came with the inevitable obligation of teaching entry level operatives. His hand pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes shutting tight with the strain of frustration and disappointment. Hank had other projects, most of which either revolved in demolition or a screaming man hidden away in one of his cubby holes across the city. The man had his fingers double dipped in many honey pots.
Hector was not still, he kept looking around them almost anticipating the wrong person to waltz up at the wrong time. He wore a sweat stained flannel shirt and simple black Dickie?s pants with simple boots. Hank, in comparison, was wearing a plastic princess crown on his head, painted a bright metallic silver complete with hot pink gems and trio of plastic beaded necklaces around his neck. Could Hector have interrupted a tea party?
?I?m sorry, okay?! I just didn?t know what to do. I barely got him in the trunk. It was?? He was going to say, ?hard? or ?tough?. Hank didn?t have a capacity to process excuses. They were bothersome, and usually riddled with self-inflated lies.
Hank looked at Hector finally, protective mit on the edge of the opened trunk lid. Seconds after, the trademark taps and slaps rattled from the inside and Hank reached to his back. Producing a simple Colt Mustang XSP. Hank had bought fancier, lighter, higher grade weapons since he started out, and offered the feather light handgun to Hector.
?Well he?s here now.? Hank somehow maintained a straight face, probably because he had forgotten the princess crown on top of his head. Hector stared at the gun, the panic swelling within him as if the man clattering in the trunk had sprung free. The anxiety showed in his brown eyes as his hand barely extended toward Hank?s.
His blue eyes were cold and observant. He was a reader of hard men; it came with the reputation of coming from a hard place. A life of dutiful wickedness offered insight. One could read whether a person had what it took in the time of hesitation. Reluctance was a catalyst. The man was taking too long to take the gun. Hector?s inaction spoke volumes more than his explanation did.
Hector finally took the gun. Hank stepped back, arm spread toward the trunk. ?Shoot the fish in the barrel, and you keep the prize.? The man really was an amateur. Sympathy was in his face. Hank was almost 100% sure that this would be the man?s first kill. It was apparent in how the man stared and thought and hesitated.
Still, Hank had to have patience if he intended to keep an employee or two. The sour glow of the sun above tempted him.
Shoot Hector, just shoot him.
He?s been late to drop off points, and can?t even finish the job. He annoyed him with the excuses, lengthy and detailed with insecurities of a man fearful for his job and his life at the hands of his boss. He stood back though. Hank had such a hard time watching.
He would have shot them both and be back home in time to tuck Emarie in and tell her a story before her nap.
What scared him about himself was how easy it was to go from blood to budding father. A man that was a father to a little girl he loved. He could go through entire rooms of men, women.. and then come out the other door only needing a shower to forget all the red on his ledger. The ugly man had gotten prettier with the vitality of humanity, but he still had a few dents and wrinkles. Nevermind those scars.
His scars came in the form of ghosts. Standing, quiet ghosts and personifications of those he had lost, killed, and never saw again. But he did see them again. Alcohol kept them standing further away from his vision, but not completely gone. That was all he could get, and that would have to be enough.
Meanwhile, Hector?s hand that contained the gun trembled. The sun began to cut its heat past his pores and the fuse of his patience had run out. The man marched back to Hector and snatched the gun with expert quickness, as if he had threaded his motions with a fine needle in and out. He held the gun, and pressed it into the man?s neck, other arm encircling the man?s neck. It wasn?t entirely immobilizing, but Hector did not resist his efforts. He only got stiffer, Hank?s mouth speaking to his ears in a quiet tone.
?Heck, I?ll level with you. It ain?t evuh easy bein? new. But if you don?t shoot the fish in the barrel I can?t let you go home.? The innocent wording had quiet sobs coming from the man. Suddenly, Hector was as much of a victim as the man slamming his hands into the trunk. Hank looked back at the trunk, keeping his mouth by his ear. ?You wanna go home, right? I know I do. So why don?t you change yuh panties out and get the job done. Hear me?? Hank?s hand tightened around his neck, finally making breathing difficult but not completely removed. ?Get. It. Done.?
He threw the man away in a shove and offered the gun. ?Ain?t got all day.?
Hank didn?t enjoy killing, but he was friends with it. He shot the shit with the man in black with a crescent shaped sickle. He walked alongside Death, crossed paths enough times to be on first name basis. It did not phase him anymore. It isn?t death, but the imprint it leaves behind.