For Hire (Monologue/Story) - Sorry About The Spelling Poem by David Whittingham

Some would call me wrong, or call me evil, demon, black hearted or merciless.
Perhaps they are right.
I don’t mind objection
Everyone has an opinion.
For now.
I kinda like it.
Speculation never hurt. On why I am, why I am. Its good for the soul.
Maybe it was a poor childhood, a murdered mother, a neglective father.
Or maybe I was bullied at school,
Or rejected in love to much,
Or drank to many drinks,
Or took to many drugs,
Or maybe
Perhaps. just Perhpas.
It’s the easiest way I can make money.
I never speculate over the morality of my work. It’s safer that way.
I leave that to priests, holy men and other do gooders afraid of their own nature.
I make no apologies for what I do. I take life. For money.
A Hit-man, an Assassin, a Contract killing, a “cleaner” (thank you Leon) .
However you dress it, it means the same thing.
I kill for money. With a craft-mans pride in a job well done.
I’d like to say I don’t kill family men, or good people or the undeserving.
But I know better than to lie to you.
It all come down to money. A flat fee. With unusual circumstances additional.

I take a swig from the bottle on my desk,
It hits the spot, making me reflective.
And I ask myself,
How many have I killed?
I no longer know.
A lot, maybe more than a hundred.
I never think of it, not the individuals.
Never review the cases, each job is separate,
But sometimes,
In my dreams,
I see a stream of faceless people.
Covered in blood and moaning,
Going off, into the distance.
I wake up, sweating, and take a shot. Straight from the bottle.
I then puzzle over the dream,
and realise I never reach the end.
Never get past the line of horror,
But then,
Maybe I’ll be the last.
The final faceless one.

My laptop beeps, interrupting my thoughts, dark as usual. Its from the agency.
A new job. Almost on my door step. Additional money for speed. And a job well done.
The target?
Michael Keetens. Senator. Good man. Environmentalist. Seems to care.
Family man. Three beautiful children. Two girls and a boy. A gorgeous wife, married for love.
A nice house on Maine Avenue. Overlooking the river. Washington.
Getting close to cracking an Illegal drug trade concealed in timber from the Amazonian rain forest.
And my clients would rather this didn’t happen.
Sorry Michael. A family man has no business challenging my clients.
Stick to the safe things. Like less taxes. No one gets killed over that.
Except for that one time. But that was the exception.
So it’s kind of safe.

I move to my cupboard, and take out my twin guns. USP Tactical silenced pistols, silver trim.
They have served me well.
There beautiful.
Funny, beauty in something designed to kill.
I guess we all find our flower at the edge of the abysses.
I admire the gun,
Soulless and unaccountable.
With no conscience or regrets.
Deadly. Silent, poetry in motion.
Just like me.
Past redemption.
I put on my suite. After all, no one deserves to die by an underdressed man. That’s just bad manners.
I grab the keys to my car. An Aston Martin DB5. yeah, I know... dramatic.
And expensive. James bonds car.007. the films make me laugh.
A celebration of a suave assassin. What could be better.
Why should I not surround myself with nice things?
After all, you cant take it with you.
I grab my wallet. Free of ID.
And move to my door.
And leave my hotel.

The streets are quiet. The business of the day concluded. The fates of so many decided.
Who will be rich tomorrow? Who will be poor tomorrow? Who will stave? And who will be bombed?
So the country survives. Living off the bankrupts and deaths of others.
Almost the same as me. The rich can afford me, the poor have nothing to fear.
In a way, I am the equaliser. Or at least death is.
I open my car and hop in, dump my tools and jacket on the back seat.
And cruse down Pennsylvania avenue, looking for the 395 to Maine.
Suddenly, a child runs out. After a ball or favourite toy, more than likely.
No ones paying me. So I stop, to let the child move out of the road.
And flash a charming smile at his mother. And a semi shrug, no annoyance in my features.
Who blushes and scolds the child. And moves off.
Reflectively I drive on.
Is this how I saw my life?
So much killing and death? Will it ever help.
I had such dreams once. Of redemption, of a love, maybe children, even, perhaps....peace.
Ha. All an illusion.
The river air is crisp and clear, with a few birds around,
One could lose oneself in the beauty, An unspoiled land. If you look in the right direction.
Although its not. Not anymore. Yet,
I can see why the Europeans came, couldn’t resist
Which such beauty, such riches.
Later such horror and such genocide,
One can only imagine the original America. Before the cruel hands assaulted its earth.
Maybe I’m nature’s way of evening up.
Reluctantly my journey ends.
I pull up opposite the Keetens residents. A cute, tasteful suburban residence. A white picket fence
The one extravagance been an open air pool in the fount garden.
The view must be amazing at sunset over the river.
I like the man even more. A luxury envirmentalist.
I respect style. Although I think it’s for show.
Sometime I think politics are all about appearance.
Michael may as well have ordered his home out of the “good American” catalogue.
This man has ambition. A pity. No man can survive true press scrutiny.

I leave my car, putting my jacket on and placing my beloved guns in either shoulder holster.
A crowd has gathered outside.
Dam.
I’ve never liked an audience. My best works done in private.
In all areas of my life.
I draw closer. I suddenly see the commotion. A child. In the Keeten’s pool.
Drowned. Or drowning. By all that’s holy, I despise altruism. Anyone of the crowd could have helped. But no, the little voices in there heads claiming someone else will do it.
If she dies....If the police are involved I’ll miss my chance!
Without thinking I jump in. Shedding my jacket of course (gun powder, despite Hollywood movies, doesn’t work so well after getting wet)
I drag the child out, give her mouth to mouth. She gasps, expelling water.
I feel good for a change. I’ve save a life, rather than taking all the time.
I place her gently on a sun bed. Stroking her hair. Suddenly missing my own daughter, in the care of my brother, unknowing I’m her father.
A shout behind me alerts me. I stand up, ready for police, civilians, army (after that time in Israel, I’m ready for most things)
I’m suddenly in-braced by sobbing women. By the edge of the pool, to the cheering of the crowd.
I hold her clumsily. I haven’t been hugged thus since my mother.
I feel a presence brush past me, to kneel by the girl.
This is not going to plan.... why is everything so complicated?
“now that was mighty kind, sir, nay heroic” I hear the deep south accent with a sense of dread.
I turn around. And there he is
Senator Michael Keeten. My target. My Pay-packet. The father of my Rescue.
“it...it.. was nothing sir” I stammer... cursing myself. I reach for my gun, realising my jackets on the other side of the pool.
Besides, the audience is still cheering. My careful anonymity would not protect me from full public scrutiny.
“now now, sir, ill not have you belittling yerself. Only a good man would have saved my daughter, and you have the gratitude of Senator Keeten” Said Michael, helping me detach his wife.
“really no trouble” I mumble
“never hear of it! I would be truly grateful if you would join us for a meal? Tomorrow night. I wont take no for an answer”
Is this actually happening? I asked myself as a glass of beer was forced into my hand.
I’d eaten with hits before, usually with poison been on the menu. But could I truly get though a family meal with the Keeten's? And still have death for desert? I didn’t know. I hate this doubt.
Still muzzy from my conflicting thoughts, I stammered a yes.
“all sorted then. I just need to know the name of my heroic chap? ” Michael said with a smile.
“John, John Wood”. I replied, stealing a name from one of my favourite films.
“John Wood, a good American name” Michael declared, to the cheering crowd, amusingly unaware of my Swiss background so evident from my features.
I excused myself, sick of congratulation, with almost suspicious speed, almost fleeing from the scene, and retreated to my hotel room. Dam me. A simple job messed up. Dam.
Back at the room, I opened an overpriced bottle of McAllen whisky from the mini-bar. Always a favourite. What was I to make of this? A moments altruism had landed me a dinner with the family I planned to rip apart, with the patriarch I planned to destroy. Could I truly go through with it?
I cursed my altruism. A child dieing, saved by a mass murderer. Any other time the irony would have appealed to me. But not now. Could I really take way her father?
I did not know.

My sleep was disturbed. I never felt this before a hit. Doubts? Doubts? ! There for the weak.
I drag myself out of bed and move towards the shower, checking the clock.16: 30.
Two hour until my “celebration” dinner.
I shower and put on my best suite. Again fixing my guns into position. This time I feel bad about it.
I move to my car and cruse down to the Citronelle, an intimate eatery.
Great. Getting to know the family.
Before I ruin it.
I get there early, and sit at the bar. I down a couple of martinis to get in the mood, as a slowly coach myself on my back story.
I’m John Wood. A travel writer from LA. On holiday in Washington, in an effort to gage the standard of Washington to LA short brakes, accommodation and general experience, and, of course, analysing carbon footprint.. Not married, one daughter. Have a small house in Highland Park, a very pretty area of the city and a reasonable neighbor hood. I’m generous, a good conversationalist and have major environmental concerns.
Perfect. They’ll lap it up.

Ten minutes later the Keeten family arrive,
Again the perfect American family. All neat and smart. Well behaved. Quiet. My natural cynicism rears its ugly head, but again silently compliments the Senator on cultivating such a perfect image.
They find me, relaxed, friendly, all smiles, with a bottle of Champagne already open to celebrate.
After handshakes and greetings all round, the daughter shyly thanks me, and I’m rewarded with a kiss on the cheek. Sweet.
After some small talk, the usual “so, what do you do? ” said in that awful drawl, I’ve fully charmed everyone with stories of my adventures as a travel writer. (I have been to many places with my work, tough I don’t usually have much time for sightseeing) We order the food. This place is good, well, I suppose been the guest of a Senator does have its perks. They didn’t even blink when I asked for my steak blue. I love my steaks rare, so it bleeds, and you get the full flavour. Just like the kill, I suppose. While listening to the Senators “fascinating” description of environmental concerns, I continued my inner monologue. In the ultimate privacy of my own head, I sigh, maybe my works beginning to effect me. Maybe a vacation from it all wouldn’t be so bad. Who knows, if I enjoy it, I may make it permanent. Wow, shaking myself internally, this assignment must be effecting me more than I thought.
Interrupting my thoughts the Senator stood up and tapped his glass with a spoon. What a cliché, I bet it’s a drink to the state, or democracy or some such mass hallucination.
“Now I wish to propose a toast” here it comes, I mutter to myself, smile fixed in place.
“To Mr John Wood, a true American” Wow, I didn’t expect this, as the rest of the tables applauded politely. I never turn down a free meal, that’s what I thought this would be. A horrible thought strikes me. Maybe... maybe It’s not all an image for political gains, or an act, or a fiction. The perfect family, the generous man, the environmental concerns. Can I really do this? It can’t be real, but what if it is? Can I truly kill such a man?
My instincts kick in, and I stand and bow to the senator, and make a return toast. Something about been pleased to help, as the children and his wife beam up at me. I get through the rest of the meal with my mind reeling. I never felt such doubt. Could I...could I tell Michael why I was at his house, why his daughter lived. Would I dare....
Still not focusing, I suddenly realise I’ve agreed to attend a small house party tomorrow, at the Keeten’s residence. I’m getting far too involved.
Again I plead my excuses, and flee the scene.

On the way back to my hotel I pull into an off licence,
And actually pay for it.
They have my favourite import brandy, Asbach Uralt, one of the best from Germany
Back at my hotel, I kill the bottle, enjoying the taste of aged oak, and the brief moments respite.
I quickly check my laptop. I have another twenty four hours to claim the bounty, and still gain the bonus.
With this thought, I pass out, fully dressed, with my head on the desk. Into a sleep, blissfully free of dreams.
I awake the next day, decidedly hung-over, and order room service. After a hearty breakfast and a shower I feel a billion times better. I move to the wardrobe, and pick out my cloths for later. What’s smart casual anyway? I settle for a neutral shirt, and a pair of cargo trousers.
Could I really do this? I can just walk away. I’d have to repay my half of the fee, but I’m wealthy enough. Just walk away.
But I can’t, not just because of the job. But because I love the way his family looks at me.
With awe, innocence, and affection.
I’m getting soft, I tell my reflection. Get a grip.
I have a few drinks, as hair of the dog, and as a bit of dutch-courage.
And sit to wait for the party.

It’s growing dark, as I returned to the Keeten’s cute residence, and indeed, as I predicted, the sunset over the river is spectacular.
The house is well lit, several guests are milling around inside seen via the window, with the token white plates and champagne glasses. Another cliché
I park my car opposite, carefully picking up one of my silenced pistols and putting it in my pocket.
I start to get out, then move back in and pick up my lighter, a gift from the agency after ten years of service. Couldn’t hurt to be prepared, I thought silently.
I grab two bottles from the boot, one a bottle of reasonably price champagne, the other a bottle of Potchine, a charming 91% proof Irish beverage. No one in there right mind would want to drink it. If anyone asked, I’d say I brought it from my travels in Ireland, as a conversation piece.
“There’s the hero of the hour! ” said a voice, slapping me on the back. Fighting my natural reaction to hurt him, I produced my most charming smile and greeted my host.
I wipe my feet on the matting and I then move towards the main room, which has a beautiful wooden floor with some gorgeous rugs. Gifts from political friends in other nations, a guest informs me, due to the Senators “secret” investigations. “Secret”. Ha!
I sit down, but not before placing the champagne bottles in the kitchen, and helping myself to a double scotch on the rocks. I put the Potchine as a talking point on the table in the main room, where it pays off as I’m immediately forced to open it and discuss it’s origins.
Still fighting my doubts I began to mingle around the party, inspecting the security system the Senator was so proud to show me, which made his house and family safe and secure. He also showed me the building work on an extension around the back of the house, that still needed to be hucked up to the house’s gas mains, leaving many off the pipes. We both laugh at the cliché of lazy builders, after he told me about the repeated promises of having the extension finished for the party. Going by the size of the extension, politics seems to pay well. I began to find Michael more and more charming, with his open southern honesty. What was I to do?
After the four I spent a fascinating few hours at the party, where I amused Michaels children with stories of my adventures in Istanbul (obviously missing out the part where I killed a prominent local politician in the Topkapı palace) the party began to wind down, until it was just me, Michael and the children, sat on the large rug. His wife was in the kitchen, beginning to clear up.
By this point I appear decidedly merry, after downing enough champagne to kill a lesser man, and accidentally spill most of the Potchine of the floor, much to the children’s amusement, but no so much the Senators.
“Well, it’s been a long day” said Michael stretching, with the obvious addition it was time for me to leave and the generosity was over.
In that moment, looking into his eyes, surrounded by his wonderful family, I made my decision. He was a good man.
“Michael” I said
“yes, my friend” He looks up
“I'm sorry”.
I quickly pull out my gun, shoot him twice in the head, and once in the heart. My trade mark.
His children sit there shocked, but his wife starts screaming.
Ahhh Michael, why did you get involved. A family man has no business in a crusade.
Not when my clients have that much money.
I push past his wife, throwing her to the floor, maybe I hear bone crack, I don’t know
The children crowd around her. Weeping and crying.
I slowly walk towards the door, bolt it, leaving the wife and children all sealed it. Surreptitiously I’d activated the senator’s security and caused a small gas leak, making the house nearly impregnable from the outside, and alas, from the inside, and thus a death trap.
I left, but not before I dropped my lighter on the “accidental” Potchine spillage on the floor.
And went to watch from my car as the inferno began.

Judge me. Feel free.
As if I care.
Maybe you were expecting me to walk away.
Because I liked the man, and saved his daughter.
But I’m a professional. I never leave a job unfinished.
Another faceless creature for my dreams.
You may think I’d feel something.
But as I walk off into the sunset.
With the fire behind me.
I don’t here the screams of the children
Or the cries of the widow.
I hear dollars in my accounts.
The drink in my veins.
And the wait for the beep.
For the next job.

This is my life....
Think you have it bad?