Saturday, September 18, 2010

Dead Drop.

Dead Drop.

“I thought I wanted a break from all this,” is what I thought as I carefully move the skill saw across his left shoulder blade and into the small bones of his clavicle. Some people want to escape. They move to great lengths to find release from the monotony of life and here I am running back into it. This poor son of bitch wasn’t supposed to end up like this. He just got in the way. It could have been anyone. But it was him.
Now here I am taking apart his neck, his arms, his torso, and then head before feeding him to the sharks. Some people kill for money. Some kill for sport. I do it for a little of both. Pleasure and profit. Who doesn’t want a job that allows for some fun involved?

Tax accountants, well they really love numbers. Doctors, they love to help people.  Pilots, they love to fly. And stock brokers love money like dentists love pain. But the problem is no one likes to be criticized for what they do best. And facing that type of hate everyday makes you question your value. That’s why brokers jump out of windows and dentists shoot themselves in the head because people don’t like someone stealing their money or causing them unwanted pain.

This is why killers take anonymous vacations in the middle of the week behind a martini at 10am. No one will notice you’re not doing your job, until someone doesn’t die. Drop time.

Dead.  Drop. Deliver.

A body needs to turn up. Like any other deadline in the realm of a professional workplace it must be met or there are consequences. Missing a mark is kind of similar to showing up late for work. Not only are you behind on schedule but now there’s still a demand for a body that you can’t produce. No missing drops. Do the job right or don’t do it at all. No one wants to hear the excuses why you’re not getting it done.

“I’m on vacation.” Honestly that’s exactly what I said over dinner. In the days before dinner we’d managed to run into each other in the most interesting ways. Surf lessons. Snorkeling. Backpacking up the coastal ridge. He wasn’t a bad fellow. He thought it was karma that pulled us into each others path. It didn’t help that I was getting sun on the roof top lounge by the pool while reading Kierkegaard that made him think we had so much in common when he revealed the same book. It wasn’t anything as boring as coincidence when I finally accepted his invitation for dinner. In fact it was at dinner that I came to the clear conclusion that would fit my problem.

And it’s not that dinner wasn’t nice. That’s not why I had to do it this way. Dinner was nice enough. The problem with dinner is the eventual need to see someone again. Which in this case isn’t really the problem.  So one meal becomes two and although you aren’t hungry you keep accepting the offer out of politeness. And the only other encouragement in the back of your mind. Work. Business is business. Pleasure can’t interfere in the present need for handling the situation. Especially when there’s the potential to deliver on schedule. Missing one leads to trouble in the workplace and an employer who loses confidence can be dangerous in any line of work. But there’s no chance of a missed deadline.

A deadline that’s sure to be met now that I’ve placed three holes in his head while the rest of him is spread out on the bed. It’s nearly time to go when I realized that the hotel sheets are stained bright red. No need to imagine. Getting those splotches out the old fashioned way will not work. Tide or ALL temperature detergent just won’t cut it here. While I’m thinking of the need to quickly get this mess cleaned up there’s a tiny knock. Housekeeping.

Two shots and a handful of tissue paper scatters with the blood splattered brains across the back of the door. Clean sheets and towels rest neatly upon the small cart outside the threshold of the door. Sweet Jane. Her name tag matches a tattoo on the side of her neck. Her maid’s uniform is accented by a small leather belt with purple star-shaped studs that reads STAR across the buckle, but she’s not shining very bright tonight. As I drag her cart into the room I realize I now have too much of a good thing.  Then I stop to think that’s not always a bad thing.

Deadline calls for an 11 o’clock drop. 15 till. I push the tiny cart against the hard floor of the kitchen until stopping quick at the rear door. Tiny sweet and dead rolls out of the cart. I lift Jane out of the rear door and onto the loading dock. Just like clock work. The drop. On time.

Dead. Drop. Deliver.

I don’t ask where the bodies go when I make the drop. I’m in the end of the factory that produces, not the delivery man. As the truck pulls away from the dock I know that none of that matters. It’s the middle of paradise and with a few minor adjustments feeding the sharks beneath the pale moonlight will be quite a departure from the business end of things.

No dead drops. Or dropping dead at all. Especially from exhaustion. People have to take a rest sometimes. No one will think less of you for needing a break. Work hard, play hard. Balance. Ah… develop an instinct for what works best for you and let no one interfere with your vision. Of course… laziness and procrastination are unwelcomed companions. Careful. Oh before I forget… have a great night! enjoy! kisses. m.

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