In life, some things you just have to lose along the way. Is it justified? Is it smart? I don’t know. It just happens.
How does one become a killer? How does one become a hit man for the mob? How does one go against all the norms in a society, and embrace that which most people would abhor? Is it a slow transition? Or do you just leap into it?
The mark should be leaving the bar soon. I was told that after he finishes work on a Friday night, he hangs out at a bar near his job. The name of the bar is Lucky’s. Can you believe that?
I’ll follow him back to his car and kill him with one shot to the back of his head. That’s all I need. That’s my signature. That’s my trademark.
There’s a silencer on my gun. No one will hear the pop. Not even the Mark. I just hope he’s alone this time. This is the second time I’m stalking him.
Last night I came close. I was waiting for him outside his apartment building in my car. It was late at night, and the street was deserted. I saw him pull up in his car. I got out of my car and walked toward him at a casual pace with long strides. I never run.
I was looking down. I always look down. I try to conceal my face as much as possible.
And I always shut off my cell phone. Don’t want any distractions. Don’t want the mark to hear me coming.
I pulled out my gun, but suddenly someone came out of the apartment building. It was a group of teenagers. And the two boys were chasing a girl. They were all laughing as they ran past me. The young man that bumped into me apologized. I didn’t look at him or make any kind of acknowledgement.
I watched as the mark entered the apartment building. I didn’t dare go near it. Too many surveillance cameras.
And even though I’m disguised… I still don’t take any chances. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. Isn’t that how the saying goes? Hopefully, he won’t get as lucky tonight.
How does one become a killer? How does one become a hit man for the mob? Is it a slow transition? Or do you just leap into it?
For me it was a slow process.
I was adopted. My mom died of breast cancer when I was four. I had no dad and no one in my mom’s family wanted me. It happens. I had no one.
The couple that adopted me were very friendly and loving in the beginning. And I was so happy. I was tired of living in institutions. In foster care. I wanted a family like I had with my mom.
But something happened. After a couple of months… After the social worker stopped coming around and checking up on me, they started changing.
I guess all they really wanted was the check for taking care of me. All the subsidies that they could get. That was really why they adopted me.
Don’t they investigate these people? Or do they give kids to anyone?
There was something wrong with the woman. She was paranoid and fearful of everyone. She was always telling me not to trust people. That I didn’t know who they were and that they would harm me.
But it wasn’t strangers that wound up harming me… it was her.
She was also very nervous, and the slightest things that I did would annoy her.
Most of the time she would hit me with a strap. Sometimes a broom. Or a thick rope.
If I didn’t clean off my dishes after I ate. If I didn’t turn off the light after I left the bathroom. If I didn’t keep myself very clean and neat.
If I had the television set on too loud. If I had the music on too loud. If I didn’t come running when she called.
Sometimes for no reason at all.
I had to constantly be on my guard. I didn’t know when she was going to snap.
And the guy was no better. All he cared about was drinking and smoking pot. And he had a mean temper. He would hit me too.
How does one become a killer? How does one become a hit man for the mob? Is it a slow transition? Or do you just leap into it?
Even the teachers in the school that I was in didn’t care. They could see that I was very withdrawn and sad. And sometimes I would come to school with a welt on my face. They didn’t even bother to inquire how it got there.
Sometimes I would go into the bathroom, into one of the stalls and just start crying. That was usually around the Holidays… especially Christmas. Other kids would be talking about the presents that they received… I had to make things up. I had to pretend that I received gifts too.
It was easy making up the gifts. There were so many things that I wanted. So many things that I dreamed of having. So many toys… but my “mommy” and “daddy” didn’t get me anything. I felt so sad and alone.
The teachers never noticed. And if they did… they didn’t care enough.
But I bet if they received five dollars less in their paychecks… they would have definitely noticed that and complained about it.
I was also being bullied in school and so were other kids. The bullies always pick on the frail kids… whether they’re physically or mentally frail. And as usual… No adult ever noticed. They never do.
Whenever you hear about a kid being bullied in school the teachers and the staff pretend that they didn’t know anything about it. All the students in the school know… but not them.
I started realizing at an early age that I had to take care of myself. I was alone in the world. And people only cared about themselves.
If you’re going to survive in a jungle… you better be prepared.
At the age of twelve I started doing push-ups. I didn’t have any weights to exercise with, so I started using the chairs in the kitchen. I would lift them up over my head.
I was becoming as strong as an ox. And I had the heart of a vulture.
I started getting into serious trouble when I was fourteen. And my “mom” could no longer handle me. I was physically bigger than her and had no problem punching her.
I remember one afternoon coming home from school early. I was suspended. The school called “mommy” and told her what happened.
As soon as I walked through the door, she started screaming at me. She didn’t even bother to hear what I had to say. I punched her in the face.
She never screamed at me again.
And my “dad,” after living a life of alcohol and drug abuse, couldn’t punch his way out of a paper bag. One time, I slapped him so hard that I knocked him to the ground. He was so drunk that he couldn’t even get up. If he had… I would have killed him
It was a gradual change. But I noticed it. I was no longer afraid of the world and the people in it.
It was a gradual change. But I noticed it. They were now all afraid of me. Even “mommy” and “daddy” were afraid of me. They were scared. I was no longer a little kid. And they knew that they helped raise me to be a monster.
The story will be continued in The Hitman 2
Photo by Craig Whitehead via Unsplash.
Fictional stories by John Saccone 
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