Ficlets

I trailed him to a bookstore in Tucson. He was wearing a sweater vest made of wool for some reason.

He sat there looking like a statue, a cane resting between his legs like a third appendage hanging below his waist. He was reading a Time Magazine, the issue about the new iPod that Apple just released.

I did not care because I was sent to track him down and kill him.

It’s usually that simple, really. It’s amazing how easy it is to take someone’s life. You find them at home or work, follow them a while, get to know them and their habits. Then it’s just a matter of finding the right place and the right time to send them to hell.

I looked at him sitting in that comfortable chair and almost felt sorry for him. It was going to be the last magazine he’d ever read. He would never enjoy a new iPod or listen to any music after that day. He looked old. Tired. Worn out. His life was going to end in a few years anyway, maybe four or five at the most, so I wasn’t upset about the job. I needed the money.