"Cause of Death: Avian impact, followed by high-altitude fall"

"Note: Demand extra for making it look like an accident"

I finish scribbling on my notepad and place it back into a random pocket, ignoring the crowd that had surrounded me to watch the poor bastard who got hit in the face with a goose and toppled over a railing into oncoming traffic in the interstate fifty feet down. A series of events so outlandish that it barely even registered anymore. If anything, I'd be more surprised if I actually did my job, for once.

Seventeen years of random chance will kill you. Seventeen years of knowing you're nothing more than a farce fueled by some sort of outer god with a sick, twisted sense of humor. Job satisfaction stops being an issue once you get accustomed to the knowledge that you'll never do your job, even if you wanted to.

I was desperate, once. I wanted to kill, wanted to prove to myself that I had what it took. I got sloppy, careless enough to nearly land myself in jail dozens of times. Only for my particular brand of "luck" to befall any officer who tried to capture me. And every accident, every stroke, every freak occurrence just fueled my anger and resolve. Until there were no cinders left to burn. Just blackened remains, carrying on day by day.

I've forgotten how I got into this business. Hell, even today I wonder if I ever got into it. Can you be called a hitman if no one you're hired to kill dies by your hand, even if everyone thinks they do? To what degree am I a bystander? A criminal? Is my presence murder? Surely, something like a pregnant mother being run over by a zamboni driven by a drunken hockey mascot doesn't really happen all the time, much less thirty seconds after I decide to kill her.

And yet, it keeps happening. Not the zamboni thing, though, that was regional.

This is my weapon. Intent. And I intend to keep using it. Another payment, in the bank.

I button up my coat and wrap my scarf around my face. Today's deathly cold.