Brandy And Belgium

Is it worse to be contemplating murder while sober or hammered to pieces?  Well he thought, if I was sober maybe I could answer that. He snorted and let out a loud bark of a laugh, life wasn't so bad he mused, here I am 40 years old pissed as a parrot and sitting deep in the bowels of a yacht, that had to be worth, what, ten mill?



The only wrinkle was that he was waiting for the owner, not to greet him warmly or  even to serve him with a court summons, but to kill him. He pulled himself up and out of the deep leather recliner, stumbling as he tried to right himself, battling with the gentle sway of the boat beneath him.  He glanced at his reflection in the huge salon mirror, six feet two inches tall, long blonde hair, chiseled chin and if he sucked his stomach in he could still pass for an athlete, well he paused, maybe, and winked at the mirror.



It may well be time to actually sort myself out, thought big John . He reached down to pick up the brandy bottle from the floor, stumbling again, whoa slow down big boy,  go easy, you can do this job in your sleep.  Perhaps sober would have been better he giggled.



He sat back down heavily, with a deep sigh he put his right hand under his left armpit and drew the weapon concealed there. He held it up to the light. A  Belgian made semi auto, common as dirt and hard to trace, he knew it would do the job.



Then footsteps, loud on the walkway outside snapped the big man from his reverie. He leapt from the chair gaining his feet easily, the effects of the brandy eclipsed by the adrenalin coursing through his veins.



He moved across the room to the bottom of the stairway that led from the deck down into the main salon, he breathed lightly now, gun held loose, eyes narrowed waiting for the arrival of todays target.



Big Johns pest control, it pays a lot better than gassing roaches, he silently chuckled, and  I'm just a phone call away.