Where there's Smoke...

It’s been said that where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

And I’m inclined to believe them.

I’ve been trying to quit, really I have. And I’ve mostly done well.

I’ve gotten down to two or three a week, all told. But I admit, sometimes I can’t resist.

Like now. The smell of gasoline, the warmth of flames in my face, the sound of screaming inside as the owners of the house wake up.

It’s a beautiful moment. Tranquil, perfect. And afterwards I crave a cigarette more than I can resist...

...so maybe they have it backward.

Where there’s fire, I smoke.

Recession-Proof

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.