Three Bullets *HF* **
By DarkWolf
THREE BULLETS
Chicago, Illinois
Justin Mills (aka DarkWolf) handed the keys to his Ferrari over to the valet, who gladly climbed in and parked the car. Justin was at a large birthday party for multi-millionaire Kevin Green. He had been invited by Green himself, which struck Justin as rather funny, since Justin was here to carry out a contract against Green's life. He wasn't sure if that was truly ironic or just what people called ironic. For Green, it would be a bummer.
Two weeks ago, he had received an invitation to Green's party. One week ago, he (or rather, DarkWolf) had received an offer of eighty-five million dollars to kill Green. Running a quick background check on Green, he had found a man who seemed to be a humanitarian. But then he checked in with his contacts and found that Green was using his company to transport and sell drugs. That's all Justin needed to know; Green was an American Druglord.
So Justin strolled into the party in black Armani, wearing his best pair of black alligator skin boots, and armed to the teeth. He had a shoulder holster with a .45 Glock, there was a Vektor CP1 9mm stuffed into the waistband at the small of his back, and there were extra clips for each in his inside coat pocket. In one boot was a wicked looking knife, and in the other was a very small Smith and Wesson .380.
Justin scanned the outside of the country club. He thought it was pathetic. Some of the richest people in the country, and the world, and there was nobody doing sweep-overs with a metal detector. Of course, he didn't expect them to sweep over the bigwigs, but all the little people that most of these men had stepped on to get where they were might decide to act on their grudge and shoot the place up. There was no telling when some armed maniac was gonna start spraying bullets everywhere. It was even happening in schools! The world had no respect.
In the old days, if you held a grudge, you went and shot the guy when he was alone. You covered it up; you took your revenge and there was no reason the world needed to know it was you who had whacked the poor guy while he was sitting on the toilet taking a dump. And if you didn't do it yourself, you hired a professional to do it. But nowadays, you grab a shotgun or a rifle or a pistol and you walk into your job and not only take out your asshole boss, but the nice little secretary who never hurt a fly in her life (and smiled at you all the time!), and the outside salesman who always slipped some of the promotional tools to you when your boss wasn't
looking. Or the IT guy who had loaded up Age of Empires that one time you were both working late and y'all stayed up till 2 am sieging each others castles and killing off each others paladins with your halberdiers. And then you just leave it a bloody mess as you sit in the corner in a trance until the cops show up to arrest you, so that you can go to Death Row, just so some liberal fucker can moan and whine and cry that you deserve mercy, even though you whacked four people and don’t really care(or maybe you do care, but that’s besides the point).
At least some of those whackos had the decency to blow their own head off and save the government the cash for a trial and execution.
That was the good part about being a mercenary. You only took out the scum of the earth. Drug lords, rapists, power-hungry murderers, people like that. You could argue that killing the killers made you no better than they are, but Justin never claimed to be better than anybody.
And besides, we all have to face the consequences sometime. Justin just expedited the consequences for some people. If he had to be punished in some form or another for taking out the trash, then so be it, because in the end the tally would read DARKWOLF: 1,486 THEM:1, and that was fine with him. If that made him a bad person, well, he didn't care. You were what you were, and did what you did, and believed what you believed, and if anybody didn't like it, then they could mind their own business, thank you very much.
****
Alan Richmond sat in his SUV behind the country club, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He knew that the bastard was there. That greedy bastard Kevin Green was in there, partying and getting drunk with all his rich little bastard friends. Kevin Green had ruined his life, and other peoples, yet he walked among the normal people unfettered.
Normal people don't run other people's lives into the ground for their own personal gain.
Normal people don't threaten you with financial ruin and a life of shame for your family for the things you knew. Normal people don't ship drugs all over the country.
Normal people don't go on killing sprees, either, but that never crossed Alan's mind as he grabbed his pistol and shotgun and got out of his SUV. He stuffed the pistol in his waistband and hid the shotgun in his overcoat, and crossed the parking lot to the back entrance of the country club.
END THREE BULLETS
"All around the world statues crumble for me..."