Hits Hard

Sam sits on the bus and gazes out over the craven and piteous sea of humanity. The bus is filled almost to the brim, that will leave a tide mark, the thought of which nauseates him. People stand shoulder to shoulder bracing themselves against accidental contact. He imagines the bus hitting a wall or a lorry or another bus. The last option fits best. The two buses coming together in a clumsy caress, their contents redistributed by the passion of the two inept red lovers. Life is short and ever so fragile. Not that any of these people are living. Not really they’re not. He smells their denial. An acrid and corrupt stench. Few of them would dare catch his eye with even the most fleeting of glances and that is just as well.

Today will be his first, but it will not be his last. This has been a long time coming. This is what he was made for. Leaving the confines of his cell-like living accommodation, he unfurled, feeling the sun warming his scales. He would burn them all away if he could, but there are so many of them. Besides, they do not deserve the blessing of his purifying fires. His gift does not come cheaply and he is very particular. That is why it has taken so much time and preparation to get to this point. The beginning had to be just so. He wants it to feel right, but more importantly, he needs the narrative to read correctly. He is a legend in the making, and his story must read well. He intends it to endure for a thousand years and more.

He is pleased with his uniform. Black shirt and black tie. The tie is a clip on. He does not want it getting caught and causing him any problems. The jeans and hoody are black too. Mail order motorbike wear. The material is reinforced, but he can move freely in it. There is a bulk to these items, but that suits his purposes well. And he is purposeful. He feels that now and has to supress his excitement. Feels it swelling up within him in an inappropriate manner. He has read of this. Understands it, but knows it is not for him. Purity is all. He looks out of the greasy window and refocuses himself. He flows through the town and when he comes to himself he is almost at his stop, and the bus is half empty, having vomited out the detritus of humanity onto the pavement like a professional drunk on any given Friday night.

His body buzzes with electricity and he’s standing before he understands the movement. Rolling his neck, he then stoops to lift his rucksack and throw it over one shoulder. It is reassuringly heavy. Feels like a warrior’s shield. He smiles to himself as the bus slows. Hops through the doors and marches towards his destination. 

Having done his research and planning, he is fluid in his actions. Nothing will stop him now. There is no hesitation. This, he knows will help camouflage him. He blends into his surroundings. He’s one of many. Nothing marks him out. It will in time. A time of his choosing.

The house is ordinary. He’s seen it any number of times, as he decided upon the route and his approach. He’s noted its appearance. Considered how it will look on TV once it is done. 

He keeps walking and turns left. This brings him around the back of this row of houses. He knows what he is about. He has rehearsed this dance, and now the music is playing, he never misses a beat. In the garden, he is pleased to see light spilling out from the open living room door. He crouches, slips off his bag and opens it. Everything is as it should be.

At the patio doors he reaches into the rucksack for a means to gain entry. Then he has a thought that questions his lax assumption. Nodding to himself, he tries the door. The catch lifts and he slides the door open. It is well oiled and silent. He knew this to be the case, after all, he oiled it. Quickly, he steps over the threshold and slides the door to. Stepping to the side he is ready to use the curtain as cover. That need does not eventuate.

The male target leaves the living room and pads to the downstairs loo. A well-worn part of his routine. The scotch he drinks prompts this visit each and every week night. He always locks the door. Sam finds this strange, but many habits are. Coping mechanisms from another time and set of situations that have no place in the here and now. Still, this buys Sam a little more time and he is already is using it.

Silently he enters the room, lowers his bag as he retrieves the syringe. She has her back to him, “that was quick!” she chuckles.

It is quick. Sam grabs her mouth to stifle her cry and penetrates her neck with the needle, deftly pushing the plunger. She struggles for a few seconds and then her writhing subsides. The power Sam feels in this moment makes him giddy with excitement. He hadn’t anticipated this. No one tells you of this feeling. In the films, there is only grim determination. A case of getting the job done. He looks down upon his handiwork and the wrong kind of thoughts couple lewdly with his excitement. This development shames him and he nearly misses the sound of the bathroom lock being pulled back. Has missed the toilet flushing, only attending to it now. Squatting, he takes the next item from his rucksack, carefully replacing the syringe.

“What the..!?” gasps the man, “who are you!? What are you doing in my house!?”

Sam puts a finger to his mouth then speaks, “it’s not your house though is it?”

The man frowns, “what the hell do you mean!?”

Sam tuts and shakes his head, bringing the pipe up to his lips.

“What’s that?” asks the man.

There’s a hiss, then the man is clutching his neck, “Wha…?” he manages before collapsing to the floor.

Sam smiles and goes to work. He has much to do. Economical in his movements, he works fast. Uses the excitement to good effect. When he’s done, he has time to wander the house and fully take in his surroundings. Now he has dominion over all he surveys. He has finally arrived. In this moment, he belongs. As he makes his way upstairs, he realises that in his haste, he has dropped the ball. He pulls a knife from his bag and slows his pace. 

“Amateur!” he remonstrates with himself in a whisper. He assumed there was no one else in the house. What if he’d been wrong? What if he is wrong?

Carrying an awkward weight of the anger of failure with him, he goes from room to room in readiness to end anyone he may encounter, he establishes the house is in fact empty. Checking his watch, he sees he has the best part of fifteen minutes left to him. Backtracking to the main bedroom he loses himself in a moment he cannot explain. Something within him rises up and takes over. He should feel shame, but instead there is an energy and a further feeling of power. He is becoming and things will never be the same again.

As he returns downstairs he spots movement and bounces joyfully into the room. He lowers himself onto his haunches so he is level with the man as he comes to. The man transitions from groggy to fully awake at an impressive rate. 

“Mmmm!” he is trying to speak despite the gag. He is also writhing and wriggling against his bonds. Sam is pleased to see the cable ties digging into the man’s flesh and punishing him for his impudent stupidity. He grins at the show. It is all he has hoped for, and it has only just begun.

“You shouldn’t have done it,” Sam tells the man, “my client warned you, but here you are.”

The man’s eyes are bulging. He shakes his head in denial. Sam nods an acknowledgement, “you want to say something about all this, don’t you?”

The man nods vociferously.

“Wait a minute,” Sam raises his index finger to repeat the single digit of time. Then he rises to his full height and walks to the kitchen. On the side is pen and paper. He brings them back to the man.

“In the films,” Sam says, “there is a dialogue between the hitman and the victim. I thought about this. I’ve thought about everything, you know. I’d be foolish to let you talk. You would most likely cry out and cause trouble and that would not do. Pen and paper. That’s the way. We can have our little denouement after all.”

He hands the pen to the man. He has just enough range of movement to write. 

You’re making a mistake!

“That’s what they all say,” smiles Sam enigmatically. The man does not need to know that he will be Sam’s first.

Why?

Sam nods, “now that’s the question. That is the question!” He claps his hands delightedly and then leans in and whispers a name into the man’s ear. As he leans back, the man is shaking his head and moaning a word repeatedly into his gag. Sam has no trouble discerning that word.

NoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNo!

“Oh yes,” says Sam, “my client has given me my instructions, and now I must carry them out.”

With that he strips to his underwear and carries his clothes and rucksack out to the kitchen. He puts them out of sight on a chair. From a side pocket he finds what he needs and returns to the man. Looks over to the woman to ensure she is still unconscious. He’s toyed with her witnessing this bit, but practicalities and the much needed mitigation of risk necessitated her sitting this one out. She’ll join the party soon enough. The man sees Sam looking at the woman and scribbles another note.

Spare her!

Sam shakes his head, “no can do, I’m afraid. She’s also part of the contract.”

He brings his weapon of choice to his mouth and as he grins a predatory, metallic grin the man screams. The gag drowns most of the agonised cacophony out, but Sam makes a mental note to improve his sound proofing solutions for next time. He has to work a little too quickly for his liking. Had wanted to take a little more time as he bites down again and again. Finding arteries and drawing close to be baptised in his first victim’s blood.

The woman awakens to an apparition in red. The devil himself has come to her. Her breath tries to escape through her mouth, but there is an inexplicable blockage. Her eyes seem to pulse with the effort of it and in them Sam sees madness. He opens his mouth in a gore filled grin and any semblance of remaining sanity leaves her. He had wanted to talk to her. Tell her who had sent him, but reality is a concept she no longer grasps. Perhaps she never did.

He tears open her blouse and feeds from her breast. He’s hungry. She takes a long time to die. He is in no rush. The protracted moment is filled with a beautiful energy that is his sustenance. He grows as she gives him everything she has and everything she is. She is his now. This was always the way it was meant to be. He sees that through the lens of her life blood.

Later, as he prepares to leave, he only wipes his face clean. Placing a beanie on his head and wearing his clothes over the blood he has spilt. It is now his after all.

The following day, he goes to see his client to confirm the job has been done. The personal touch is important after all, and his client did instruct him in a face to face exchange. Detail is everything. There is a ritual that must be adhered to.

Sam is made to sit in a waiting room. His client is a busy man. Sam has no problem with waiting. A lot of life is waiting. Eventually, he is given the go ahead to enter the client’s office. This is the entrance door, Sam knows that another door provides an exit. Discretion is everything. There is no crossover. No one sees who the client is associated with. Sam likes this precaution. He circumvented it well before taking his instructions. He’s a professional and he likes to know who and what he is dealing with.

“How are you today, Sam?” asks his client.

Sam has taken a seat and his client is sitting across from him. No desk, the desk is behind his client. They both value the personal touch.

“Good,” replies Sam, “I feel really good.”

The client nods slowly. Sam is pleased. He is following the convention that they established from the off. The client asks questions and Sam follows his lead. He’s enjoying the delay this creates. The anticipation of delivering the news of his successful completion of their agreement is building and that adds to his feeling of wellbeing. His feelings of power and invincibility swell within him.

“You certainly seem in a good mood,” the client observes, “I notice a change in you. Do you feel different?”

Sam grins and he is transformed into a beaming schoolboy. There is pride in his demeanour. He has something he wants to share. A job well done. This is his moment. Show and tell.

“I am different,” Sam says as his smile widens even further.

“How, Sam?” asks his client, “how are you different?”

“I have become what I have always needed to be,” Sam tells him.

The client’s usual calm demeanour flickers for a fleeting moment, “has something happened, Sam?”

“Yes it has!” crows Sam.

“What? What has happened?”

“I did it,” Sam tells him.

“Did what, Sam?”

“I did what you instructed me to do,” Sam answers.

“And what is it that I instructed you to do?”

Sam nods and puts a finger on his lips. Looks around conspiratorially, “let me show you,” he whispers. Then he stands up and undresses in front of the client. As his clothes fall to the floor and he reveals his altered state, the seated man’s mouth forms an O.

“What have you done, Sam?” he gasps, all semblance of calm now fled, “what have you done?”

Sam gazes down at the man in triumph, “I did what you told me to do, and I have become.”

The man is shaking his head, “but I…”

Sam laughs, “you told me to let them go, and I did. You have to let people go in order to become whole. Now I am whole. I am so much better!”

“Who did you let go, Sam?” the man’s voice is shaking, and no wonder, his entire body is shaking as though it would blow away in the gentlest of breezes.

“Well, I didn’t have anyone to let go of,” Sam explains, “we both knew that.” He chuckles, “but you did. You had that nasty ex-wife of yours and the friend who betrayed you.” Sam looks down upon his client, “and now you don’t. So you owe me.”

Sam’s therapist brings a hand up to his mouth in an empty and futile gesture. His eyes tell Sam everything he needs to know, even before he begins shaking his head in a denial of the reality Sam has brought him. He has regressed to the state of the two people he had to consume in order to transform. He knew there would be more contracts. Yesterday was only the start. He hadn’t anticipated this though. This development interests him. 

He crouches in front of the diminished man, “in order to become, I had to take something of those people into myself. They were the contract. It had to happen. You told me this. You said this is what I should do.”

“I didn’t, Sam,” the man almost squeals the words, “you’re not… you don’t have to do this…”

“Oh!” Sam exclaims as he reaches into the pocket of his jeans on the floor between them, “but I do. The dragon must be fed, and he is a fine, red dragon.”

“This isn’t you, Sam,” the client whispers, “I can help you…”

“You have,” Sam says, then he places something in his mouth that muffles his next words, “and I will.”

The therapists eyes go wide in horror as Sam lunges at his neck and clamps his mouth shut with his palm. It is over in a matter of minutes. They only had an hour before Sam was expected to exit by the door on the opposite side of the office. This time Sam waits. He stands by the entrance door and he waits to close it quietly, but firmly. By his reckoning, there will be four more sacrifices for the dragon today. Three will walk into the office and the fourth is sitting in reception, oblivious to the change in the fabric of her reality. Sam will enjoy her the most. He will think about her as he sends the others in and he feeds upon them. He’s always liked the look of her. Now he will taste her and consume her. Feed upon her denial of the reality he brings to her. That’s the best bit. The incomprehension and the denial. No one is equipped to see the red dragon in all his glory. He is the god of change and of death, and he is clothed in the lifeblood of the damned.

Sam grins as he takes a seat and crosses his legs. Life is good. Life is damn good.