Short stories

Bleach, gloves, bin bags = shopping list. I pin the note to the kitchen cork board and look around at my new Brooklyn apartment. This is gonna need a lot of work. I let my eyes absorb the huge pile of junk in the corner, the dust gathering on the furniture, and the ghastly brown stain in the middle of the carpet.

I stand there for a moment, trying to decide where to even start when my sight falls upon the gun on my dining table. I sigh. So many good memories are tied to that baby. When you’re a hitman, your gun is like your best friend, your only friend, and that is certainly the case with my Glock. Or at least, it used to be. I count myself lucky on that one though, considering most in the assassin business don’t make it past training, let alone all the way to retirement. I let my fingers glide down the cold metal, my nails tickling the trigger when the characteristic chime of the doorbell rings. Instinctively, I grab the weapon and spin to face the intruder, only to see a simple wooden door. I breathe for a second before I realise I’m still clutching my gun. I dash over to my desk, shoving the gleaming machine in the top compartment before jamming it shut. ”Ding dong, ding dong,” The doorbell rings again. I smooth down my hair, cursing the infernal timing of this visitor before flinging the door open and flashing an ad-worthy smile.

“Can I help you?” I ask the rather tall, handsome man before me.

“Hey, I’m Matthew. I live down the hall in 17 and I wanted to welcome you to the block,” he says, before noticing my questioning look. “I come bearing gifts?”

He whips out a gorgeous plate of cookies from behind his back, and my eyes light up like a Christmas tree.

“Come on in,” I remark as I usher him inside, gesturing for him to sit on one of the bench stools.

“Do you want scotch or scotch?” I ask, already halfway through pouring the glasses.

“I… er… don’t drink,” He mumbles as I slide the tumbler across the bench to where he’s sitting. I stare at him for a moment, trying to decipher if he was actually being serious - I mean, who in their right mind doesn’t drink? Then he tilts his head back and lets out a roaring guttural laugh before downing the drink in one.

“Don’t worry, I’m not that much of a party killer,” he chuckles as I try to shake off his remarkable feat.

“So Matthew, how long have you lived here?” I inquire, fiddling with my glass as I take in the man sitting in front of me.

“Only a couple of years, but I’ve actually been in the Brooklyn area for a while now.” He grinned.

“Oh yeah? Any recommendations?” He takes a few moments to think before his face morphs into a eureka expression.

“There’s this fantastic pizza place a few blocks away that you should definitely try, I reckon you’d love it.”

“Hmm, it’s a date, Matty,” I smile, playing along. You know, with all the killing and murder I’ve put up with in the past few years, I deserve nice retirement, and pizza sounds like a very good start.

Then I see his hand sneak to a pistol-shaped bulge on the side of his belt and my face turns into a frown.

“Well that’s a bit of a shame, because I quite liked you, Matthew.”

A hail of bullets rains down on me as I dive behind the kitchen counter, splinters spraying over my head. I knew there was a reason I hated those damn machine pistols. Crouching in the safety behind the bench, I realise my right sleeve is soaked in crimson. I tear through the material, revealing an inch-deep gash on my arm. Crap. That wasn’t supposed to happen. I rip up a strip of my shirt and shove the end of my belt in my mouth, biting down hard as I pull the fabric tight around the wound. It momentarily halted the bleeding. The bullets above me stop, and I hear the tell-tale click of an empty cartridge. It’s showtime kids.

I throw my body over the top of the counter, lunging towards him as he battles to ram in a second magazine. My shoulders connect with his kneecaps and tackle him to the ground, sending his gun flying across the floor. I scramble to my feet, my right arm hanging limply by my side, and race towards the discarded contraption. Two hands wrap around my ankles and yank me down, my body hitting the floor with the power of a bloody freight train. A hand grasps my shredded shirt as his knees pin me to the ground, his face leering over me. His hand curls into a fist that powers down towards my face, connecting with a dull thwack. I turn my head to the side with a grimace and spit out blood. Okay, now I’m pissed. I work my leg free of his knee and drive it up fast between his legs. His body freezes for a second before he keels over, groaning and clutching his crotch. Wasting no time, I jump to my feet and turn around, kicking him hard in the stomach, a rush of air escaping from his body. I chuckle. I can play dirty too. I start tracing my way to my desk as he rolls on the floor, feebly attempting to get up.

“You see, I only have one little question left, Matthew,” I state, as I drag my nail across the top of my wooden desk towards my first compartment. “Who sent you?”

He rapidly shakes his head, not a word escaping from his lips. My lips twist into a pout.

“I thought you might say that.”

Bang. My left hand grabs my glock from the drawer, firing a single round through his head, and I watch as his lifeless body smacks back onto the wooden floors.

“They just don’t train them like they used to,” I tut to myself as I pat down his limbs, feeling a lump on his belt. I pull out a wallet with a note shoved inside. Kill Agent 5. Bingo. That’s my quiet retirement out the window. I pull myself up and sigh as I take in the mess he made on the floor before ambling back over to the bench and amending my note: Bleach, gloves, body bag = shopping list.