Paraiso: Prologue

         Do you know how it feels to kill a man? It's strange. Your first thought isn't about the person who the police will call the victim. You realize not that life is fragile, but that blood isn't only red. It's a variety of colors that weave in and out of each other as it spreads across the floor; crimson and purple, brown and black, all blending together to form strange new shades and hues as it dries. Blood is a painting in waiting, endlessly flowing through your veins and cycling through your heart. And when I or others like me come along, the painting comes to life when it splatters on the wall and pours from the entry point of my bullets.
         
        I'm no demon, no boogeyman who stalks the night in search of the next victim. I'm just a person passing you on the street, the one you don't even bother looking at. I'm the one you would never bother to remember unless I get a call to come for you. Killing isn't fun to me. I don't get a kick out of what I do. It's just my job.
         
        So tell me. Will I get a call from you, or about you?