HOME | DD

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

Part 1
I hate interrogation rooms. Been in plenty of 'em. Wasn't more than an hour before I was out again. Mafia lawyers...Goddamn geniuses, every single one of them, or a group of vicious bastards if I've ever seen one. They'll cheat, blindside, and bribe everyone that they can, and anyone they can't gets whacked. Until now.

Leaving me to rot was my idea from the start. I even told the boss man not to bother paying me, because this was going to be my last job. I wanted out. If that meant going to prison, so be it. And now, I'm stuck in another goddamn interrogation room, stewing under cold fluorescent lights while I wait for some shithead detective to finally come talk to me. It's incredible how bloated and ineffective the American justice system truly is...Especially when they've got a murder suspect in custody who's ready to spill the beans on everything that transpired that night.

I can picture them outside, watching me through that two-way glass window of theirs, trying to find out what makes me tick. Trying to "understand" me. Hmph...What a load of horsecrap. There's nothing deeper to be found here, nothing else to be understood. I know that, and they do too. And yet I'm still sitting here, wondering when someone's going to take my fucking confession. What a terrible night.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Part 2
Several hours earlier.

This dog-and-pony show is beginning to bore me. Time to get down to business.

The well-dressed man standing at the head of the crowd begins his speech not moments after I've slipped out of the atrium, so my exit doesn't draw too much attention. I'm not really listening, but on my way out I catch a few bits and pieces. Sounds like a sad sack in desperate need of quick cash guilting people into wasting their savings on starving children overseas. It's not really my place to judge-whatever event this is was simply a cover to get me inside the building-but I still can't help smirking. This country's got enough problems without its wealthiest citizens, the people with the power to make a difference (for better or worse...), pouring their hard-earned cash into a noble but ultimately futile cause. Sure, I might be a horrible person for believing that (or even thinking it, for that matter), but it doesn't make it any less true.

The hallways grow darker as I reach the top of the spiral staircase in the lobby. No one's here save for the guards-I can hear their boots clomping in the black like a troop of elephants-and the one man securely nestled in the office that forms the heart of a maze of corridors. I've got to be careful...Best take out all the goons first, minimize any chance of getting noticed before it's time. If the patrol routes my employer insisted I spend hours studying are correct, there should be one coming around the corner shortly.

As it turns out, they are.

It's all over in an instant. I don't even give him a second to react, whipping a hand over his mouth as a single suppressed shot severs his neck from his spine. "One down." Only a dozen to go echoes in my head as I release the body, listening to it hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. That'll draw a few more of them my way.

When they come, I repeat the process. They aren't all neck shots, but the kills are clean and precise, leaving no time for a reaction. Seven bodies lie before me in the inky darkness when I'm done, and no time is wasted stalking off into the abyss to find the others. The muzzle flashes of my weapon are the only light in the deep black, and on every face I catch a glimpse of, there is surprise, disbelief, and sorrow.

When I'm decently sure I've taken them all out, I wait beside one of the rapidly cooling corpses for several seconds, listening for footsteps, then bend over and strip the dead guard of his weapon. So far, so good. If everything else goes as planned, the man in the office will be dead...And I'll be out of the game for good.

There is no shock, anger, or sadness on his face as I ease open the door to the office, submachine gun leveled at what I imagine is chest height, and pull the trigger. By the time that the police and security arrive, his blood is all over the walls and slowly leaking onto the carpet from two dozen brand new orifices.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Part 3
The present.

The detective now sitting across the table from me watches with stony indifference as I finish reviewing a copy of my confession and sign on the dotted line. "One question..." That's it? "Why'd you clip him with the SMG? You could've gotten away with everything...And you chose not to. Why?" "I guess...I didn't think killing him with a silenced pistol would make much of an impact." The silent shock and exasperation beneath his icy facade is priceless as I finish out my thought. "Using the SMG...That sent a much, much better message."