There was this lovely couple out on a date. Beautiful restaurant, nice live music. The meals were fantastic, we’re talking true works of art, here. The sauces, the smells, the flavors… I would’ve felt terrible if I’d chosen to do it then. So I waited.

They were in that place for what seemed like a small ice age, before they’d decided to move on to a late-night walk in the park. Nice open areas, very little lighting, and virtually no one else there save for a late-night jogger and some guy pullin’ his pants down at passing-by geese. That was where I chose to do it, and I chose to use the ol’-fashioned methods.

They were sat on a bench, just enjoying each other’s company. I still feel guilty about it, truth be told. But I did what I was paid to do – I pulled the trigger. I hit my mark. I packed my things, and I walked away.

In the corner of my eye, I could see the distraught look on his face, as he cradled his dying lover in his arms. I can still see him now. This job’s a real bitch. I shoulda been a Chef.