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“The Hit”
This is what
he does
you can’t pick
what your good
at
he tells himself
as he unscrews
the silencer
on his gun
a small .22
automatic
the perfect
up close and
personal firearm
for a quick
tap
to the back
of the head
quiet
no exit wound
the bullet
just bounces
around inside
leaving no mess
behind,
after picking up
the single shell
casing
he stands over
the dead man
who except for
the small hole
under his hair
line
in the back
of his skull
looks like he
is just relaxing
in his over
stuffed chair
his left hand
still holding the
tumbler
of 21 year old
single malt scotch
on the wide
armrest
of the chair
his dark brown
eyes
staring out the
glass walls of
his penthouse
suite
at the ever
changing dance
of the city
lights below,
he drops the
silencer
into the coat
pocket
of the hand
tailored suit
that is hanging
off the corner
of the arm
chair
a calling card
for a job
well done
by one of the
industries best
making the gun
untraceable
after the bullet
passes through it
leaving a groove
pattern
unique to only
the silencer
which is important
cause this gun
has a lot of
sentimental value
to him
more so then
the dead man
in the chair
he wouldn’t have
wasted a bullet
on him
if he thought
he would have
to toss the
gun,
he walks over
to the guy’s
record collection
quite surprised
at the diversity
of music genres
it contains
he pulls out
a couple of
records at random
and settles on
a little light
jazz
sets the record
on the turntable
hits the power
button
and brings the
music to life
reaching over
he takes the
glass
from the dead
man’s hand
breaking a basic
rule
in his standard
protocol
the ice from
his untouched
drink
just starting to
melt
as he takes
a slow measured
drink
trying to savor
the taste
of this high
quality scotch
unable to understand
why someone
would ruin it
by adding ice
he puts his
nose to the
glass
lightly breathing in
it’s distinct
aroma
a strong peaty
smell
standing next
to the high
glass walls
he looks down
the streaking colors
of the city
fighting their way
through the darkness
of the night
the soft sound
of jazz
heightening
the brilliance
of the lights,
he rolls the
scotch around
in his mouth
before swallowing
the last of
it
sliding the tumbler
back into the
still warm fingers
of the dead
man’s hand
the corners of
the two large
ice cubes
rounded
as they lean
against each other
in the now
empty glass,
he lifts the
needle
off the current
track
that is playing
with his gloved
hand
killing the power
before returning
the record
to its sleeve
and filing it
back where it
belongs,
he picks up
the bottle of
21 year old
single malt
pouring just
enough into
the glass
to float the
ice
then returning the
bottle
to the table,
he takes a
brief look around
no subtle mistakes
nothing left
out of place
a few liberty’s
had been taken
that shouldn’t have
been
trying to get
inside the head
of a man
who now has
a bullet
rattling around
inside of his
a practice
he has partaken
of
on more than
one occasion,
he checks out
his look
in a hallway
mirror
straightening his
tie
and pulling on
the cuffs
of his long
sleeve dress
shirt
through his jacket
his gun
tucked away
in the curve
of his back
keeping the
slim line of
his suit
undisturbed
as he reaches
for the door
knob
of the front
door
slipping into the
well-lit hallway
removing his gloves
as he enters
the elevator
calmly walking
through the lobby
on to the
street outside
where in a
breath
he is gone
blending in
with all the
other creatures
of the
night…
Tom Allen…11-10-2018…
This is what
he does
you can’t pick
what your good
at
he tells himself
as he unscrews
the silencer
on his gun
a small .22
automatic
the perfect
up close and
personal firearm
for a quick
tap
to the back
of the head
quiet
no exit wound
the bullet
just bounces
around inside
leaving no mess
behind,
after picking up
the single shell
casing
he stands over
the dead man
who except for
the small hole
under his hair
line
in the back
of his skull
looks like he
is just relaxing
in his over
stuffed chair
his left hand
still holding the
tumbler
of 21 year old
single malt scotch
on the wide
armrest
of the chair
his dark brown
eyes
staring out the
glass walls of
his penthouse
suite
at the ever
changing dance
of the city
lights below,
he drops the
silencer
into the coat
of the hand
tailored suit
that is hanging
off the corner
of the arm
chair
a calling card
for a job
well done
by one of the
industries best
making the gun
untraceable
after the bullet
passes through it
leaving a groove
pattern
unique to only
the silencer
which is important
cause this gun
has a lot of
sentimental value
to him
more so then
the dead man
in the chair
he wouldn’t have
wasted a bullet
on him
if he thought
he would have
to toss the
gun,
he walks over
to the guy’s
record collection
quite surprised
at the diversity
of music genres
it contains
he pulls out
a couple of
records at random
and settles on
a little light
jazz
sets the record
on the turntable
hits the power
button
and brings the
music to life
reaching over
he takes the
glass
from the dead
man’s hand
breaking a basic
rule
in his standard
protocol
the ice from
his untouched
drink
just starting to
melt
as he takes
a slow measured
drink
trying to savor
the taste
of this high
quality scotch
unable to understand
why someone
would ruin it
by adding ice
he puts his
nose to the
glass
lightly breathing in
it’s distinct
aroma
a strong peaty
smell
standing next
to the high
glass walls
he looks down
the streaking colors
of the city
fighting their way
through the darkness
of the night
the soft sound
of jazz
heightening
the brilliance
of the lights,
he rolls the
scotch around
in his mouth
before swallowing
the last of
it
sliding the tumbler
back into the
still warm fingers
of the dead
man’s hand
the corners of
the two large
ice cubes
rounded
as they lean
against each other
in the now
empty glass,
he lifts the
needle
off the current
track
that is playing
with his gloved
hand
killing the power
before returning
the record
to its sleeve
and filing it
back where it
belongs,
he picks up
the bottle of
21 year old
single malt
pouring just
enough into
the glass
to float the
ice
then returning the
bottle
to the table,
he takes a
brief look around
no subtle mistakes
nothing left
out of place
a few liberty’s
had been taken
that shouldn’t have
been
trying to get
inside the head
of a man
who now has
a bullet
rattling around
inside of his
a practice
he has partaken
of
on more than
one occasion,
he checks out
his look
in a hallway
mirror
straightening his
tie
and pulling on
the cuffs
of his long
sleeve dress
shirt
through his jacket
his gun
tucked away
in the curve
of his back
keeping the
slim line of
his suit
undisturbed
as he reaches
for the door
knob
of the front
door
slipping into the
well-lit hallway
removing his gloves
as he enters
the elevator
calmly walking
through the lobby
on to the
street outside
where in a
breath
he is gone
blending in
with all the
other creatures
of the
night…
Tom Allen…11-10-2018…