Average Everyday Grim Reaper

Average Everyday Grim Reaper


Here I am again, standing in the express checkout lane at the grocery store. As usual I have bread, milk, bologna and cheese. It's the Holiday Season and all the cute little housewives with their two point five children are stocking up for what's sure to be, a wonderful Christmas feast.

The Fat Bastard in front of me is draped over his cart handle breathing as if he just ran a ten k marathon. "Christ, maybe if you ate some fruit instead of those donuts you might live to see sixty." Okay, maybe that's a little harsh. I mean, I weigh two hundred and twenty pounds and am only six feet tall. But, I also workout and occasionally eat right.

Fat Bastard steps to the side of his cart. Which, I can now see is completely full. I shake my head and look up at the sign. Maybe, I misread it. No, I thought it said, "twelve items or less" and I was right. I sigh deeply and lean back to look down at the other lanes. All these lines have ten people deep waiting anxiously to put their items on the sliding counter. I roll my head back and tilt it side to side it makes a loud crack. Which, I have to say, "relieves some frustration." I could easily call over a manager and have Fat Bastard moved to another line? Couldn't I? Well, I guess all that would do is upset everyone, and truthfully, I'm not in hurry to get anywhere.

The magazine rack to my left has a picture with a rail of a girl on it saying, "I have a disease, and bulimia is a disease." Whaaa, eat a cheeseburger. Or, I got an idea, just stay with Fat Bastard for a week and you'll eat like a champ. This thought makes me chuckle out loud and Fat Bastard looks at me. I smile, "Happy Holidays bud," I say to him cheery as can be. He grins and just looks away. I pick the magazine with girl on it up off the rack and slip it slowly into his cart. Maybe when he looks at it he'll think twice about eating that box of chocolate covered donuts.

Probably not!

Dan Folgerberg's, "Same O'l Lang Syne", is playing on the overhead speakers and I begin to sing along softly out loud. "Met my old lover in the grocery store. The snow was falling Christmas Eve." My one-man band is broken up, as I feel a cart ram me in the ankle. This causes a chain reaction, like a pile up on the highway. I lean forward and bump Fat Bastards cart. Which in turn, nails an Old Lady With A Cane. Old Lady With A Cane turns and looks at Fat Bastard. Who then, turns and snarls at me. Now I have to follow suit and grimace at the Jackass that hit my anklebone. And I mean, my anklebone. You know it, the part that only has one layer of flesh to cover it? Yeah.

With my foot now tingling I turn my broad shoulders slowly to see what Jackass looks like. Standing there isn't a Jackass, but a Jackess. Is that right, Jackess? Either way, she smiles a sweet smile and says, "I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there." Well, unless I turned into Houdini and vanished, this Jackess couldn't have missed me. I smile my half smile and tell her, "Oh, it's okay. I think that I may have backed into you. You have a nice Christmas." "You too," She replies so nicely.

I turn back around because it's my turn to stroll up one in line and Fat Bastard is glaring at me. Obviously disappointed how I handled the whole situation. Instead of berating the women, I was kind. I stare right back at him. Well, more like through him and he stares back. We look like two prizefighters in the center of a boxing ring, getting detailed instructions from a referee.

The stare down is broken up by a kid screaming, "I want fandy, I want fandy!" What the kid meant was candy, but he was missing one of his front teeth. The Jackess behind me looks down at her son and says, "No fandy for you, unless you stop begging! I mean candy."

The checkout girl in this lane is young. Cute, but very young. "Sixteen will get you twenty. Ha Ha," My buddy Raff would always tell me. She doesn't have a name on her tag, it just reads, "New Member," in bold black letters. I figure, if she toughs it out though. That tag will read, "Tiffany, or Amber, or Emmy," whatever her name is. She's looking at me now as if she can hear this whole conversation going on in my mind, and smiles. I can see invisible, or not so invisible braces that line her top and bottom teeth. I've been so deep in thought that Fat Bastard has already begun to load his bagged groceries into his cart. New Member isn't staring at me because I'm hott or sexy. She's staring at me because I'm up next.

Now I can easily hand her my four items one by one. But, I enjoy putting them on the rubber sliding counter and watching them go to their destination. You see it's the little things in life that make me happy. So, now I'm standing in front of New Member with money in hand. I say to her, "that's an interesting name?" She looks down at her badge draped over her left breast and replies, "like, that's not my name silly. My name is Rita." This strikes a cord with me and I actually laughed out loud. And New Member, now known as Rita, just winced at me. You would have thought I took the pen out of my shirt pocket and stabbed her in the face with it. I pay the nice young girl so I could get the hell out of there and into my car. She glares at me the whole way as walk to the sliding doors to exit.

Dan Folgerberg was right the snow is falling. Granted, it's not Christmas Eve, but he was right much the same. I unlock the door to my GMC Yukon and hop in. I'm a big guy, I like big things. This Yukon according to the Dorky Salesman who sold it to me, "was a deal I was unable to pass up!" He was right. I remember when I first seen him walking up to me in the car dealerships parking lot. You know, that annoying feeling that popped into my stomach, which is always followed by a roll of the eyes and a loud groan." Just leave me alone," you say to yourself or the person that you're with.

Dorky Salesman was wearing what looked like golf pants, a shirt that was stained yellow, and a tie that looked like a ten-year-old boy should wear it. The too short tie road halfway up his small beer belly. I started the Yukon now and turn on the wipers to clean off the freshly fallen snow. I look through the now clear window and see Fat Bastard loading his groceries into the trunk of his sedan. With every bag he puts into the car, he takes a deep, long breath. I'm just waiting for this guy to fall over and pass out. Thankfully, he doesn't. I would definitely not want to give this guy mouth to mouth.

The Jackess passes the front of my car with a loaded cart and whiney kid in tow. She heads to her car, and your not going to believe this. But yes, it's a mini-van, go figure. She's now yelling at the boy again. He's made a small snowball and is threatening to blast her with it. She reaches into one of the bags in the cart and pulls out what looks like, fandy. I mean candy, and persuades the boy to lower the snowball. The situation is all under control. Everyone seems to be happy.

Let me pose this question to you? Have you ever pulled next to someone in a parking lot and thought to yourself, I wonder what he or she does for a living? If you would pull up next to me, most likely you would think that I am a salesperson or an insurance guy. Only because, I'm usually dressed in a suit and a tie that matches the season. Today it is red. I told you, I like the little things in life.

If you guessed the above mentioned of a salesperson or insurance guy, you'd be wrong. Although, I feel I would be pretty successful at either one of those jobs. No, I'm your average, everyday Grim Reaper. Okay, if you pulled up next to me, I wouldn't have a sickle leaning against me, nor would I have a hood on. I'm a Grim Reaper not sent to you by the Devil, or the bad souls of hell. I'm sent to you by someone who you think loves you, or a business partner, or my favorite one, a neighbor whose banging your wife or husband and wants you out of the picture. That's me, I'm a problem solver. You have a problem, you get my name from someone and I solve it for you.

I'm not the person that you see getting caught on tape by some half-wit cop trying to kill his wife for a couple hundred bucks. I'm higher class than that. I'm your friend for a week, a month, a year, and I had been a friend with one of my victims for ten years. You may remember I spoke of him earlier. "The sixteen will get ya twenty guy". Raff, it got him more than that. It got his life.

I don't like that word, victims. It makes me seem like a serial killer, taking his victims into some back alley and slicing their throats. I like to call them my prospects. Doesn't that sound more professional? I believe it does. I do have some morals about me. But, I've been told by a lot of people that I'm a heartless prick. This in a way has a little truth to it. But, when it comes to kids, I would never do anything to hurt them.

I know what your thinking, "if you kill a prospect who is a mother, than aren't you hurting that child?" In a way I may be. Mentally, but not physically, Let's be realistic, I not going to walk up to a mother on street corner, pull out my gun, fully equipped with a silencer and blow her head off. That's not how I work. Let me give you an example of a prospect that I took care of.


Chapter 1
The Queen of Hearts

I was sitting on my oversized leather sofa when my cell phone began to ring. I grabbed it and looked at the caller i.d. screen. It said, "Reggie." Ah, she could wait I thought to myself. You see I never answer the first time that she calls. It's began to be this little game that I play with her. Just in case it wasn't her and some F.B.I. in suit had gotten a hold of her phone and wanted to track where I was.

The phone stops ringing. I ease my way up off the couch and head to my office. My apartment is a loft right in the heart of downtown. The ceilings are twelve feet high, and the view that I have is of the largest building in the city. It's actually the second highest, but I don't have that many people coming over to argue the fact with me.

My office is where I spend most of my time when I'm at home. It has a glass desk in it that you could park a large car on and a gateway computer with a twenty-two inch monitor rests on it for now. This monitor is larger than most people's televisions. Handmade bookshelves line the walls of the room and every time I walk in, I think to myself, "maybe someday, I'll put a book or two on them." I'm not a big fan of reading. Honestly, I pretty much hate it. It's not that I can't read, or that I don't have the time to. It's just that every time I do, I catch myself jumping ahead one, two or even five chapters, to see if the two main characters ending up falling in love. No, I prefer to listen to the books on cd while I'm driving in my car. In my car right now, I'm listening to "Manhunting," by Jennifer Crusie. I know what your thinking, "what's a guy like me doing, listening to some sappy love story set in backwoods Kentucky?" Well, it always makes me think of true love. Something that I have to admit, I have yet to find. Maybe the whole, having no heart thing is a problem?

My phone begins to chirp again, and this time I swivel in my Backease 2000. This is my fancy office chair that I bought myself this year for my birthday. I flip open the phone and Reggie's sweet voice greets me. "I hope this is a good time?" A smile forms on my lips, "well actually, I just took off my pants and t-shirt, and I was going to teach myself a lesson. I've been a bad boy." I hear her groan on the other end of the line.

Reggie and I have a great relationship. She is, or was a runaway when she was fifteen years old. That's when I met her. I was ten years her senior and felt terrible for her. So I leased the apartment next door to mine and let her live there. All she had to do was take care of my clients for me. Basically what she does is act as a middleman or girl. Whatever. She has turned into quit a beautiful women. She's twenty-three now, and hasn't smoked, drank or done drugs since that cold night I took her in eight years ago. At least, that's what she tells me. After all, I'm not her father.

Heartless? Is that so heartless? Taking in a runaway and putting a roof over her head? Training her and teaching her ways to take care of me? And, making me happy? Oh, I guess it does sound pretty bad. Selfish maybe, but not so heartless. Maybe I should have tried to find her family.

Reggie speaks up breaking my train of thought, "I have job for you." "Alright, put it under my door and you know the routine." I tell her, and then ask curiously, "Is it a big one?" "Really big," she says with enthusiasm and continues, "but, this ones not your typical case." My head tilts to the right, "not my typical case? What do you mean?" "Yeah, you haven't done one like this in a long time. It's a female prospect, a doctor." I thank her and close the phone.

Women are always tough prospects. I always picture myself walking in to take care of her. Then, I get to know her on a deeper level. I end up falling madly in love with her, passion oozes from our pores, like water flowing from a fountain. Yeah... I think the next book I get on cd, will be a graphic murder mystery.

The key to taking care of a prospect is proper planning and research. Remember, everyone has a routine. Even if you're the busiest person in the world, you do one, two or even five things each week that is ritualistic. Like brushing your teeth for example. A sniper perched in a tree across the street from your house, could pick you off any given morning or night. Or, parking in the same spot at work everyday. Because kidnappers would see your car there and know that your working. Making you an easy target any day of the week. Or, going to the same bar every Tuesday night for happy hour. If someone wanted to rape you, all they would have to do is meet you there and slip a mickey in your drink. I'm pretty sure that you do some of these same things weekly? We are all creatures of habit. Let me help you change your routine a little. Next time you brush your teeth. Check to make sure the blinds are closed all the way. When you get to work. Park in a different area. And next Tuesday, when your friends want to get drinks. Suggest a new bar.

Now okay, whether you're reading this in your home or listening to it on cd, don't worry. When you get up to check outside your window and see a man standing there. He's just taking his dog for an evening stroll. And that black van that's been behind you for the past three miles. He's just lost.

I think?

Meeting the Prospect

I have to say that, "I love going to bars." I mean true bars, the kinds that have yellow stained walls from fifty-year-old smoke. Bar stools that are stuck to the floor and yes, the inevitable, a seventy year old man at the end of the bar known as Joe. I love Joe. He always tells you the same stories, even though he's met you forty times.

But tonight, I was going to a "club" to meet The Queen of Hearts. I emphasize "club" because I can't stand these places. You know these place too, walls with mirrors on them. Bar stools that have been replaced by dance floors, and yes the inevitable, a twenty-two year old boy at the end of the bar. Also known as Joe. But this Joe has bleached blonde hair with streaks in it and clothes on that would look better being set on fire. This Joe was given the "club" as a gift from daddy on his birthday.

The person or persons that called in the information about The Queen of Hearts had informed Reggie, that this is where we could find her tonight.

So I walk into the "club" and see through a reflection off one of the mirror panes that The Queen of Hearts is entering a room with sign hanging over it that reads, "Martini Lounge." I yell loudly, "Good Christ, can this night get any worse?" Nobody heard me do this. I'm sure the bass of the speakers and the treble of the song drowned it out. Just for kicks I yell it even louder. "Good Christ, can this night get any worse?" My voice cracks as I shout it out. Still nobody notices, no bouncers getting me in a headlock because they think I'm crazy. No young patrons giving me odd glances, nothing.

Sixteen the barmaid looks my way now. I call her sixteen because she has to be that old. The schoolgirl outfit that she has on makes it even more convincing. She comes my way and asks me, "if I'd like a drink?" I tell her, "that I would like a beer." She nods and turns to fetch it for me. She pulls a bottle opener from the waistband of her skirt and twirls it in her finger. This impresses me, sixteen is one impressive women, I mean girl. Okay, let's face it. The girl is dumb as a box of rocks. She's told to show ass and collect five dollars a beer. And of-course it has to be five dollars a beer because the owner Joe, could never expect her to give change for a four dollar and sixty-five cent drink. But, I bet if I asked her she would tell me, "that she's working her way through law school or going to become a doctor." I hear that all the time.

On her way back from fetching my beer. I notice that she has the perkiest boobs I've seen in a long time. Their pouring out of her shirt from everywhere they can. The sides, the top and I'll tell you what. "They just might forget about pouring and tear right through the front." Like when the great doctor would turn into the incredible hulk. Yeah, It would look like that. She hands me my five-dollar beer and in the process touches my fingers with hers.

Now to a guy, this sometimes is the equivalent to sex. Especially to someone like me who hasn't had it in a long time. And, I mean a long time. The last girl I was with was Baby Blue. I called her Baby Blue because she had those light eyes that made your loins ache. You could put those eyes in a four hundred pound women and every guy would want her. Baby Blue and I only dated for a couple of months and that ended with a bang. Literally. She was crossing the road on Fourth Street in downtown. When a delivery truck driver didn't see her step from behind a parked van. Bam!

Although, I didn't attend the funeral. For a couple of reasons. First, I never met any of her friends or family. I didn't feel like even beginning to explain to them who I was. And how me met. Secondly, I didn't think that her husband would appreciate too much. Now I know what you're thinking. "What an asshole for nailing some poor bastards wife." But, as they say, "it takes two to tango.

The music in this side of the "club" seems to be getting louder now. So, I make my way over the neon "Martini Lounge" sign. I step into the doorway and stick my head into the Lounge. This room must be soundproofed. They have jazz music softly playing on the speakers. I actually have to turn my head and look at the younger, louder portion of the "club" just to make sure I didn't imagine it. Nope, it does really exist. The loud music still thumping. The twenty one year olds still grinding. And of-course, sixteen in her too tight tank top is touching the hands of all her patrons. Working for the tip.

Soft blue bulbs that hang over every circular table by a thin wire light the Martini Lounge. Off to my left there are three velvet couches. Women in business suits and men in sport coats and ties occupy all these couches. Or, as like to call them Professionals. A group of five guys in suits are seated on one of the couches. One of the guy's is wearing a pink tie. His hair is spiked up, it makes him look like a porcupine. He looks like he's the leader of this crew. The guy's behind him are all in there forties. He's probably twenty-five or so. All the conversation with, let's just call them "plump girls" is being headed up by him. I could just picture forty-year-old guy in suit on the phone with stay at home mom and wife. "I'll just stay out for a little honey. It's Mike's birthday." Stay at home mom, "how longs a little? Last time you stayed out until eleven o'clock." "Oh, honey, I promise. This weekend, why don't we take the kids to the park and hangout? As a family." "Do you mean it? Okay, have fun with your friends. I'll see you when you get home. I love you." Forty year old man in suit is giving his work buddies a thumbs up with his free hand and telling stay at home mom and wife, "he loves her too."

The "plump girls" are all listening to the porcupine like he's telling some grand story. Nodding, laughing and giving each other sneaky looks. "Maybe we all have a chance with these guys," they tell each other with every glance. "You go goes," I think to myself. One of my old friends I grew up with would always say, "big girls need love too." Then he would find the biggest girl possible and dive right in. He was only five feet three inches tall. The group of us friends would just watch in awe as he would pass us by.

The other people in this Martini Lounge are professional as well. Although, their not as obnoxious as the porcupine and his gang of forty year old suits. As I make my way to the bar I hear people talking politics, sports, wine and "how the martinis in here are just divine". Hearing these things makes me want to stick my index finger down my throat and hurl. At this point I almost wish I was on the other side of the club now. Not hearing much of anything but the bass and treble.

The sit up bar in the Martini Lounge has twenty or more stools at it. Only five are currently occupied. At one end of the bar is an older man facing a young lady that looks like she's his assistant? He's saying things to her and she's writing as fast as she can on a yellow notepad. "Call Bill, schedule a golf game for Tuesday. Order some more sticky notes for the office. Call Mr. Roberts and reschedule our meeting for next week sometime." She stops writing and sets the pad and paper on top of the bar. She begins to open and close her writing hand. Obviously trying to work out the cramps that have formed. He places his left hand over top of her aching fingers. From here I can see a wedding ring on his left hand, but not hers. I also can see a future prospect for me. The assistant turns her head slowly and with her left hand, pulls the hair back behind her ear that has fallen in her face. She lowers her eyes and gives the old man a sensual wink. Future prospect reaches in his pocket and pulls out a wad of cash. Throwing a fifty on the bar and then gripping the girl's hand indicating that he is ready to go.


The Brush

Five stools down from where the future prospect and his assistant where sitting is The Queen of Hearts. Now normally I would use a move that works every time to pick a girl up at a bar. Feel free to use my technique next time your out with your friends. I call it The Brush. The Brush when used to perfection can increase your "hooking up" ten fold. Here it is and pay attention because I will only tell you once.

Find a girl seated at the bar that you would like to "hook up" with. Walk up next to her to order your drink at the bar. While you're waiting on your drink reach into your pocket to grab your money out. On the upswing from your pocket back up to the bar, brush the arm of the girl that you like. The girl will look at you. So, flash your best smile. One of two things will happen now. One, she didn't feel you do it. Or two, she felt it and she's not interested.

When she does turn to look at you. Be ready to talk. This is the most crucial point of The Brush. You have to say something that is snappy or catchy to keep her attention. Now I'm not talking about some corny line either, "come here often? Is that a mirror in your pocket, because I can see myself in your pants? Or, my favorite one of all time, just plain HI." I said snappy or catchy these lines are neither of those two. Try this one, and make sure that you've been to that bar before. "Sorry, I didn't mean to bump into you. I just haven't seen this many people in here in a long time." Then smile and stop talking. All this happens before your beer even gets to you. Remember, it takes three seconds to make a first impression. If nothing comes of it this time and your friends are watching. Just tell them that she initiated the whole conversation, but you weren't interested. After all they didn't see The Brush.

Now of-course here at the Martini Lounge with The Queen of Hearts in view, I will not use The Brush on her. I would look like a complete tool walking over to her and brushing her on her sleeve. I may end up getting smacked or kicked out of here for assaulting her. I have to admit. It's definitely easier to work a prospect in crowded room for obvious reasons. There are more variables involved, more activities. But, in here it will be tough.

So where in here do I sit then? Most people in my situation would sit right next to her. This is a common mistake, because I know the second that I sit down. She'll get up to leave. There is no doubt about it in my mind. I've been in this scenario before, I've learned from my mistakes. The second or third stool down from her. Well, this choice would make me look timid and shy. Remember, she's a big time doctor. She's not looking for timid and shy. And, five to ten stools down from her would make me look like a loser. She'd be saying to herself, "look at this drunk, boo-hoo I don't have any friends. I'm here all alone, Dork."

So I pick the fourth stool down from her. I give her a gentle half smile as I pull my bar stool out to sit in. The bar has a smooth stainless steel top and glass on the facing of it. The steel is cold to touch, it feels like my gun. This puts me at ease. The bartender makes his way from the other end over to me. He's tall, he has to be six foot seven or six foot eight and it looks like he could only weigh one hundred eighty five pounds. Beanpole comes to mind. This makes me laugh out loud.

Just as I'm in the middle of a hearty laugh by myself The Queen of Hearts looks at me. She knows all to well as to why I'm laughing, Beanpole. Jackpot, I made a connection with her.

When Beanpole gets to me I ask him for another beer. He just looks over my left shoulder and in deep voice informs me, "the beers over there. My specialties are martinis." I don't like this guy, so calmly I say back to him, "okay little fella, I'll have a martini." The little fella comment wasn't necessary, but I don't like someone else having all the control. Not to mention, if I had to. I could snap this guy in half. He lurches away from me and begins to make his "specialty drink". To my right pass The Queen I see a sign on a door with a stick figure of a man on it. Here's my opportunity to begin the game of flirting. I stand up just as Beanpole sets my martini on the bar. I hand him a twenty and he walks away to get my change.

I turn now to walk to the bathroom and on my way by The Queen I smile and in a soft voice I say, "your bad, I know what you where thinking." She tilts her head and a smile has begun to grow on her face. I cast the line in the water waiting to see if she takes the bait.

I've been in the bathroom now for one minute forty five seconds. That's long enough. I leave the bathroom and make my way to my bar stool. The Queen doesn't look up right away, but just as I get behind her she says, "I'm bad? You're the one that's bad." She took the bait. Now I have to reel her in.

I grab the back of my bar stool and turn toward her. I wrinkle my brow making it look like I'm thinking really hard. Then I jerk the line. "Mrs. Are you waiting for someone?" She looks at me quickly now realizing that I'm talking to her and says, "You're putting me in a tough spot. "If I say no, you'll think I'm a drunk. And if I say yes, you won't talk to me anymore." I nod my head at this tell her, "let's compromise. I'll leave one seat in between us open. That way neither one of us looks like drunks and if someone does show up to meet you. I'll just say I was keeping you company. Deal?" Her face smiles in agreement, "Deal."

I'm in. Now it's just a bunch of boring banter back and forward. Are you married? Do you have any children? What kind of car do you drive? Where do you work? After I have talked to The Queen for an hour, I'm bored. This woman is a complete bitch. She talks about her neighbors and "how they water the lawn too much." She talks about her secretary and "the directions that she doesn't follow well." She talks about the board members of her hospital and "how they are always on her about working."

I can already think of twenty or so people including myself that would like to see The Queen of Hearts eliminated. But, in order to do this right I have to be patient. No need to hurry. After all, I might get laid out of this whole thing. While she's blabbering an image flashes through my mind. We go back to her place and the second we walk in she tells me in a loud, deep voice, "take off your clothes and lay on the bed. I have to get changed." She comes from the bathroom wearing a leather cat suit, fully equipped with a whip. She tosses me a mask and a ball gag. She runs her fingers through her short brown hair and squeals "put it on."

I shake my head back and forward a few times to get the image out of my mind. I can feel bile rising up in my throat. Beanpole asks, "if I'd like another, and one for the lady too?" I have to get out of here I think to myself. Then I say out loud, "actually, I'm leaving town in the morning and I have to get some rest." I extend my hand to The Queen of Hearts and tell her, "it's been a pleasure meeting you." She responds in voice that I didn't recognize she had, raspy and slow, "the pleasure was all mine. Call me when you get back in town." In her hand she extends to me a business card with all the essentials on it. Work number, cell number, pager number, e-mail, and of-course the address that she works at. Too easy, I think to myself. "Doctor, it's been real." I turn on my heels and make my way to the exit.


The Difference between You and Me

Now here's where you and I differ. You would walk out onto the loud crowded street until you seen The Queen of Hearts exit the club. You would follow twenty feet behind her. When she arrived to her car that's when you would make your move. You would hit her on the head with a stick or some foreign object splitting her wide open and dropping her to the ground. Then you would proceed to stomp and hit her, until she laid there a heap of her former self.

I would then tell you that you made a rookie mistake. The police would arrive and find her dead, bloody and beaten. They would snap a picture of her face and head to all the local bars. The Martini Lounge being one of them. They would ask who was working the bar and the owner with videotape in hand would let them know that, "Beanpole was working." The police would now have the videotape of The Queen, the information that Beanpole gave them and of-course about thirty shots of you on camera. You would've been the last person to hang out with her, while she was alive. Congratulations, you are now a suspect.

Or, another scenario for you to ponder. You would follow her in your beat up Ford Escort until you see where she lives. You'd park the jalopy down the street from her home and wait for the lights to go out. Then, you would make your move. Let's just say for arguments sake, that you can bypass the high tech security system and take care of her. At the least, all this would take twenty five minutes. You would proceed to stroll out to your beater as if nothing had happened. You'd start the junky escort and begin to pull away. This would be a high class neighborhood with tenable security on patrol. You pass them by and wave ever so politely. They wave back. The overweight security guard in the passenger's seat is writing down your license plate number, make and model of your car, and a nice description of you. Two days later the cleaning lady finds The Queen dead in her bedroom. Now between the videotapes taken at the Martini Lounge, where she was last seen with you by the way. The overweight security guards information. And, let's not forget the neighbor's house that you parked in front of. That's right, the neighbor doesn't sleep well at night, and maybe you should get your muffler checked out. With all this information that the police now have. Congratulations, you've been arrested for murder.

Okay, so why not hook up with her at the bar and go to her place? I'm not saying that you can't do that. You just can't take care of her that night is all. Wait at least a week or two. When she shows up dead. Nobody will ever remember that you even existed. So, go with her tonight. Pound the shit out of her. Put the mask and ball gag on. I'm just saying that you have to take the whole operation slow. I'm not saying that you can't have fun. Work is supposed to be fun, isn't it?


Guppy

One week later on a Monday morning I call to have a taxi pick me up in front of my building. The taxi is taking me the rental car company by the Airport. The car comes to a screeching halt and I hop in the back. The pleather seats in the back are torn. And the taxi smells of old spice and coffee. I'm pretty sure the taxi driver doesn't speak a lick of English. I think his name is Rasheed. "Aaaaiiiiirrrrrpppoooorrrrt," I say to him as if I'm talking to a three year old. He just nods his head and throws the car in drive.

The meter begins to run. The total from here will be thirteen dollars and twenty five cents. I know this because I have taken route many times before. I've always started out jobs like this. Taking the taxi to the rental car company. I'll be picking up a car that nobody would recognize me in and if they do. I'll be getting rid of it in forty eight hours anyways.

As we speed pass cars on the highway I stare out the dirt covered window. I watch the people in the cars next to us. I daydream now. I catch myself doing this more often. Maybe, it's because I just had my thirtieth birthday. That's sounds like a good excuse.

I watch men in suits probably in route to make their quota of sales calls for the day. I watch women in mini vans taking their children shopping for new winter outfits. I see teenagers piled into a little Honda civic bobbing their heads to some rap song or techno beat.

What would I do if I were the average Joe? Maybe that would be me talking on the cell phone setting some big appointment? Maybe that would be my wife, with my kids, spending my bonus check on clothes? I think out of all the people I see on the road, the teens make me the most jealous. I didn't get the opportunity of hanging out, going to malls, dances, and clubs and so on.

I was seventeen when I started to work for myself. I was a junior in high school and my first prospect was a grade ahead of me. Everyday my friend Guppy, yep Guppy. Just like the fish. He had lips that never stopped moving and they were always formed in a kissing motion. Guppy and I would sit together everyday at lunch. We were both pretty small guys. Our growth spurts didn't begin until we graduated high school.

This Arab would come up to us everyday and harass Guppy nonstop. "Nice lips, Kiss my ass with those lips, Suck my dick with those lips," the Arab would say to Guppy. Guppy was in no shape to handle the Arab. He only weighed about one hundred and ten pounds, wet and wearing boots. Guppy said to me one day the Arab walked away, "if I could find someone to kill that Arab asshole I would take the money out of my trust fund and pay." I started to laugh once he had said this. Guppy just gave me a look that said, "he was serious." So I just played along, "how much would you be willing to pay?" I said to him. Guppy looked up at the ceiling thinking real hard and answered, "ten thousand dollars!" "Guppy, don't you think that someone would notice that you had taken ten grand out of your trust fund?" I said.

Guppy began to shake his head as said, "no, how do you think I bought my truck? Nobody noticed that was missing." Let me tell you, Guppy had a brand new Ford F-150 that was totally tricked out. I mean this truck was slick. Chrome rims, tinted windows and a stereo system that you could here coming from a mile away. So I said to him, "how soon could you get the money?" He lifts his brow, "two days. I could definitely get it in two days. Why? Do you know somebody?" "Yeah, I know someone. But, you would have to give me the money. Then I would give it to them for you. Hell, you don't even have to give me the money up front. They'll do the job and then you give me the money." Guppy shakes his head in agreement. He didn't even question who I knew? When they would do it? Nothing. He is dead serious.

So that day after school I followed the Arab to his house. He drove a Nissan maxima that was completely beat up. Rust covered the doors, a bumper that was hanging on by a bungee cord and a crack in the windshield that was showing signs of spidering out. The Arab parks his car next to a panel truck in his driveway. I parked my parents Ford Aerostar ten house from his home and just watch. I watched the house until eight o'clock. Nobody else pulled into the driveway. No mom coming home from a hard day at the office. No sister, no brothers and no friends just stopping by. While I waited I came up with a plan.

The following day I tailed him home again. The same panel truck was parked in the drive next to the maxima. I waited until it became dark outside. Then I made my move. From my passengers seat I grabbed a chunk of concrete that I had lifted off of a busted up curb. I took a look around and exited the van. I made my way over to the passenger's side of the maxima and knelt on one knee. I remember thinking. So far, so good. No neighbors looking out their windows, no dogs chasing me off the property. It was just me and my concrete chunk.

I lay on my back and squirmed under the low car. With my right hand I gripped the concrete and found the break line. I swung at it. I did this as quietly as possible. I only repeated the motion three times. The third was a charm. Fluid began to drip slowly from the line. I smiled so brightly at this site. I then proceeded to pick up all the little chunks of concrete that had fallen on the ground where I was laying. I then creped back out from under the car and went back onto one knee. I took one last look around. Still nobody was to be seen.

In a hurried pace I went toward the van down the road. I started it and speed away. Two days later at lunch there was no Arab to bother Guppy. Apparently the Arab was driving behind a semi and when the big rig came to a sudden stop. The Arab didn't have any brakes and slid underneath it. Since the maxima was so low the crash with the truck peeled the top of the car off and his head. The police did find brake fluid in the form of a puddle on the Arabs driveway. But, they determined that at some point he must have hit a curb and damaged the line.

Guppy had taken me over to his locker a few days after the accident. He pulled out a large duffle bag. And, I remember this so clearly. His hands were shaking as he said to me, "here's your gym clothes that you forgot!"

One month later Guppy was found dead in his dad's apartment. Apparently, someone had laced his marijuana with embalming fluid. Did I mention that in high school I washed cars for a funeral home?