A New Holiday Tradition

I broke into his house as he slept.

It wasn’t as hard as I’d imagined it might be, to be honest, I’d thought breaking and entering would be a whole huge process and that I might not be up to the task, but when the time came all I needed was a little forethought, a little advance planning, and an appropriate mix of forthright honesty and blatant lies.

I explained to his neighbor what I planned to do and she gave me his extra key, basically, it didn’t take any more than that.

So, while he slept, into his home I crept, dressed all in black but for a red winter hat atop my ski-masked head.

I was careful, I had to be careful, lest I wake him as I crept silently up his stairs and into his room, placing the small, gift-wrapped parcel I’d brought with me on his night stand and crouching by his bed, my face inches from his, watching him even as he continued to sleep, utterly oblivious to my presence, the only sound in the room that of his breathing as he slumbered.

And, once everything was in place and I knew the time was right, I prodded him once, then again, to wake him from his dreams.

“Secret Santa.” I whispered, eyes wide, grinning under my mask.

And then waited for the screaming to begin…

The Sanctity of Life

It seemed, at first, like the perfect crime.

The state had recently passed a personhood amendment granting single, fertilized eggs the same legal standing, rights and protection as fully-grown human beings.

Meaning that, due to this amendment, life would for all legal intents and purposes begin with that single cell and, whatever might happen to it from that moment on, it would be the same life it was at the moment of conception.

The legal ramifications were, indeed are, obvious.

Identical twins begin as a single cell, which then divides in two, both parts growing into what, previous to the passage of “Personhood”, was considered a separate individual human being. However, due to the deliberately indistinct wording of the amendment, from a legal perspective the single cell is now a complete legal entity in and of itself, and this doesn’t cease to be the case simply because that one entity happens to inhabit two physically distinct bodies.

So, when Michael contracted me to murder his twin, I knew there’d be no consequences to the crime. Murdering a twin, after all, was no longer murder. It was at best assault with the intent to cause grievous bodily harm, and unless Michael pressed charges (unlikely as a paper-trail existed connecting him to the act) there was no way that case would stand up in court. I’d be brought in, he’d testify on my behalf that I’d done him no lasting harm, and that would be the end of it.

Like I said, the perfect crime. He’d have done it himself if he hadn’t been so squeamish. Understandably so, whatever the legality the act killing a twin does still feel sort of like murder.

Still, that’s where men like me come in handy. I don’t get squeamish easily. So on the appointed day I walked into the office Michael’s “brother” worked in, went to his desk and put four bullets into his chest. I dropped the pistol, came out with my hands up, turned myself in and prepared myself for three or four days navigating the criminal justice system before my inevitable release and subsequent payday.

The best laid plans…

What I didn’t know was that Michael was hit by a bus on the morning I’d been scheduled to kill his twin, and as such by the time I shot him he was the only surviving brother. So here I sit in my little cell, awaiting arraignment on murder charges with a mountain of evidence piled up against me.

My lawyer thinks he can talk it down to criminal negligence, as my only real crime was failing to do my due diligence that morning, and I hope he’s right, but I have to admit, the chances don’t seem good.

The state also has the death penalty, and they’ve proven time and again how much they love to use it.

They’re very serious, in that regard, when it comes to protecting the sanctity of life…

Weekly Prompt Story: Chip

http://podcasting.isfullofcrap.com/2012/10/14/weekly-challenge-338-chip/

Chipper

By Christopher Munroe

I was being extraordinarily reasonable.

I didn’t raise my voice, I wasn’t rude, I simply explained that the first time I put a guy into the wood-chipper I’d bought, it jammed, and asked for a refund.

Jerry, behind the counter, explained that the wood-chipper was meant to chip wood, and since I’d misused the hardware no refund would be forthcoming.

Chip wood?

What part of my life as a hired murderer would lead me to need chipped wood?

Still, nothing I could do, so I bought another, sturdier wood-chipper at a rival store.

This weekend, I’ll demonstrate it to Jerry…

Mr. Jackson's Money

Look, you gotta calm down.

All Mr. Jackson wants is his money. That’s all he wants. We know you have it, you made the pickup just fine, there were plenty of witnesses who saw you do it.

You’re in trouble, you know that by now. If the fact that you’re tied to a chair in a room you don’t recognize didn’t tip you off I’m sure my knife did. But this doesn’t have to end all that badly for you.

You do still have an out.

I have to get the money, I have to bring it back. Mr. Jackson doesn’t like failure, any more than he likes weasely little fucks trying to steal from him, but there’s nothing in my instructions about what I gotta do with you once I have it.

So, I’ll tell you what, you tell me where the money is…

You will STOP fucking crying this FUCKING instant! I’m talking to you. You will shut up and listen when I’m talking to you!

As I was saying, you tell me where the money is, and once I have it you get out of town. Nobody here ever hears from you again. How does that sound?

I’m not joking. Stop crying.

I won’t tell you again.

Look, I know it’s not the future you’d hoped for, on the run from somebody with Mr. Jackson’s resources, but it’s the only end to this where you get out of this room still upright, so what do you say?

Wait.

Who’s phone is that? Oh, that’s me.

Sorry, I gotta take this.

Hello?

Yeah?

 Yeah, I’m talking to him now.

Don’t worry, I’ve fed him a line of bullshit about hope and survival and whatnot. If that doesn’t work, I’m gonna start with his teeth. Either way, I’ll get him to tell me where he stashed the cash, kill him, dump the body somewhere it’ll never be found, and head back.

Yeah. Absolutely. You too. I’ll see you then.

Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have let you overhear that. So: Where were we?

Weekly Prompt Story: Bubbles

http://podcasting.isfullofcrap.com/2011/11/06/weekly-challenge-289-bubbles/

Bubbles
By Chris Munroe

Bubbles rise to the surface, burst, and are gone. And as suddenly as that it’s all over.

He’d thought he could steal from me, thought I wouldn’t notice a few bucks “disappearing” here and there.

I make it my business to notice everything.

I could have alerted the authorities, but it’d been a while since I went hands on, so I solved the problem myself.

An invite to an afternoon on my boat, a bottle of wine and a willingness to wait for my opportunity.

And now, as I sail home, I can’t help but smile.

I’ve still got it.

This is Not a Robbery

Everybody get down on the floor, hands behind your heads, and try your best to remain calm. This is not a robbery.

Maybe eighteen months ago, when I first lost my job at the firm, I’d have considered robbing a bank, but back then I thought a new job was just around the corner and that I’d be back on my feet in no time. And now that I realize what a joke those hopes were, it’s too late. The time has passed. It passed when my wife packed up the kids and moved back in with her parents.

They were my world. I tried to convince them things would get better, but after a year of waiting even I was beginning to doubt it. Once they were gone I felt like I had no reason to go on.

Didn’t even bother looking for a job after that. Didn’t see the point of it without a family to come home to afterward. I found it harder and harder to bring myself to care about anything at all. When the bank finally sent somebody around to kick me out of the house the only thing that surprised me was how little I cared.

Afterward, at a local shelter, my things in a trunk at the foot of my cot, I considered eating my gun. But that didn’t appeal to my sense of the dramatic. I’d always had a well-developed sense of drama, back when I was a man, and the idea that I die the way I wish I could have lived appealed to me.

So here I am. And no, this is not a robbery.

It’s a suicide attempt. And you’re presence is just an unfortunate side effect.

So try to remain calm as we wait together for the police to arrive.

Unmasked

Too many secrets had escaped the agency, and everyone knew they had a mole within their ranks. But the council was at a loss. Whoever was leaking documents, they were covering their tracks too well.

So Agent Seven organized a party.

Space was prepared, and everyone with security clearance was gathered in what they thought was a simple social.

But Agent Seven had his own agenda.

He confidently walked out into the ballroom and, one by one, started punching the guests in the back of the head.

“Sorry…” One of them eventually mumbled.

And so, the Canadian spy was unmasked.

Pardon

It was at a party, on my last day of freedom, that I saw him.

The party wasn’t for me, of course, no parties were for me by that point. None of the people I’d once considered “friend” wanted anything to do with me. But I did donate to the gallery, once upon a time, and for that they’d invited me, and nobody’d ever thought to withdraw the invitation.

After all, who could imagine I’d actually show up? After the freak show my trial had become, it was unthinkable that I’d ever show my face in public again. Yet there I was.

It was my last day, after all, before sentencing. Why not go out for one last huzzah? And the looks on the faces of those vapid socialites was a thousand times worth it.

Nonetheless, I never thought I’d see him.

The governor had been rumored to be in attendance, but he was always rumored. His actual presence was shocking to all. He was, after all, pondering a run for the Presidency in a very public manner, and it had been widely assumed he was too busy for frivolous gallary parties such as this. Everything ground to a halt as he walked by, deep in conversation with two aides, and everyone turned to stare. Even an alien observing the room would know at a glance that a) he was a man of tremendous import, and b) he did not belong here.

I, a man who’d traveled in these circles for years before those unfortunate accusations began to surface, saw it even more quickly.

It took minutes to fully comprehend the simple fact that he was here, but mere seconds to formulate my plan.

Which was good, since it truly was my last chance.

I walked toward, and then past him to the wet bar. He, lost in his hushed conversation, paid me no attention at all. As I passed, I clipped him across his shoulder with my own, knocking us both temporarily off balance.

“Oh, pardon me.” I muttered, sheepishly.

“Of course.” He replied, distracted.

And that’s why I’m back on the streets.

Anyway, this has been fun, but I really have to wrap things up now. After all, I have eleven other jurors to track down after you...

Officer Tompkins

Officer Tompkins had already had a hard day.

His soon to be ex-wife wouldn’t return his calls, and every time he met with her lawyer it looked more and more like he was going to lose his house. His car had been hit that afternoon while he was picking up his lunch, and no witnesses had been found. And now, five minutes before the end of what had already shaped up to be a double shift from hell, he was dealing with what by all evidence appeared to be a lunatic.

The man’s eyes were wild, darting back and forth as he recounted his complaint, as though he expected to be attacked at any moment. His face was pale and wan, as though he hadn’t seen the sun in a very long while, which, judging from his grease-stained lab coat and clothes that appeared not to have been washed in days, may well have been the case.

But the worst part was the complaint itself. Theft is always a horrible thing, but this man was behaving as though the world was ending. His statement bordered on babbling, circling round itself as it spiraled toward gibberish. When Tompkins let him, the man would slump into his chair, muttering “What have I done?” and “I’ve unleashed a monster” to himself, as though the Officer wasn’t even in the room, as if the man had forgotten completely that he was in a police station.

Tompkins was tempted to kick him to the curb, file his incomplete, incoherent complaint, and head home for a good night’s rest. But it was his job, and he took it seriously even on the days he didn’t want to. He was a good cop.

Even though sometimes he hated being a good cop.

He breathed deeply, attempting to settle his temper, and tried one more time.

“Please calm down, sir,” he asked, doing his best to sound reasonable, “and try to describe the man who stole your watch.”

“No, no,” the madman muttered, “you don’t understand. You couldn’t understand, why would I expect you to understand. How could anybody? It wasn’t a watch, it was so much more than that. Don’t you see, he’s stolen my time machie…”

…Officer Thomas had had a hard day. Fortunately, the station was empty other than himself. There hadn’t been a report in nearly half an hour, and in five minutes his double shift would finally be over.

My iPhone

He said he’d forgotten his bank card at home, but he’d return to cover lunch, and offered to let me hold his iPhone ‘til he got back.

But after he left, it started ringing, and kept ringing most of the afternoon.

Finally, I answered.

A woman’s voice, hoarse from weeping. Between ragged sobs, she said her husband was a good man, who’d never hurt anyone, and was just trying to buy ice cream.

She screamed at me, thinking I was a mugger.

Thinking I was a thief.

Thinking I was a murderer.

…long story short, I have an iPhone now.

I'm Not a Monster

I warned you.

You had the easiest job in the world! Get money, bring downtown, drop off. You didn’t even have to launder it yourself! The pay was good, the work was easy. I told you over and over, don’t fuck this up!

But you got greedy. You got “mugged” on your way and “lost” the briefcase. With a ticket to Barbados in your apartment, sitting on your nightstand.

You knew you’d get caught.

You knew I kill people for money.

You had to put me in this situation?

I’ll look after your kids. I’m not a monster, after all…

An Account of My Admittedly Brief Time as a Crime Fighter

From shadows he lunged as she walked innocently by.

Pinning her to the cold brick of the alley, wrestling her purse away, he whispered something known to none but the two of them.

Little did he know I saw all. And the time had come for me, long sickened by crime, to swing into action.

I dialled 9-11 on my cell and gave a detailed account, then went downstairs to make sure she was okay. We waited together for police to arrive.

And what the hell’s wrong with this neighbourhood, that nobody but me was willing to do even that?

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.

Queer Eye for the Felony

Five twenty-something homosexual cliché’s and a camera crew arrived at my house this morning. It was unexpected, but I’d seen shows like it before, so I did my best to be a good sport.

They toured the place first, critiquing my choices in clothes and décor. I tried not to let it hurt my feelings. I liked a lot of the things they threw out, but I knew I’d never considered such matters seriously, so I suppose it was no wonder that my home was not up to par, fashion wise.

Afterward, three of them stayed behind at my home as the other two took me shopping, and to get my hair styled. A lot of talk was exchanged about patterns that flatter my physique and colours that went well together.

I tried to keep up with what they were doing, but fashion really is a little bit beyond me. Still, I like what they did to my hair, and it was nice to get a little colour in my wardrobe. A few of the pieces they picked out for me I’d wear, for sure.

After the afternoon out was done, they took me home. They dropped me off in front of my house, and as their car pulled away, I opened my front door to see the changes they had made.

And that’s when I realized they had robbed me.