After another period of rest, like that I mentioned before,
wherein I took a nap and watched TV (and of course, wrote on here), there was
that fateful knock at the door.
The next target.
I was handed the papers.
It was Omar. Omar Friedman and a couple of others, but Omar
was the important one.
I know Omar’s a shithead, but he did let me stay at his
place to escape the stress of the marble woman, and when he (wrongly) assumed I
was on drugs again, at least he showed an ounce of empathy and wanted to help
me.
And in any case, he’s still a human being. The only two
times I’ve killed someone, it was mostly an accident.
“I know these guys,” I said.
“What difference does that make? A job’s a job. You gotta do
it.”
“No, I can’t. Forget it.”
“You’ll be reprimanded!” he warned.
“I don’t fuckin’ care! I’m not doing it!”
The handler left without another word.
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