Whistling as I worked, I bound and gagged the young family and left them locked in their basement.
Upstairs, dousing their furniture in gasoline, I wondered who they were. But I didn’t wonder too hard, it wasn’t healthy in my line of work to ask many questions.
When the gascan was empty, I made my way out the back and, as I climbed into my waiting car, threw a lit book of matches behind me.
As the inferno faded into the distance behind I took time to reflect. Say what you will about contract killing, but the business was recession-proof.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
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