Fictional stories by John Saccone

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  • The Hit Man

    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.

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  • Cuckold 2

    Manhattan, the land of milk and money. That’s the place to be. A magnet for people with hopes and dreams bigger than New York’s skyscrapers.

    A magnet for people all over the world that are willing to test the boundaries of morality and decency in their pursuit of the Almighty Dollar.

    The City is a spider’s web that people are entangled in. A fairy tale land where green unlocks the doors to a human utopia. And many people are trying to break through those doors.

    In the middle of it all is the Spider. Wall Street. Spinning its evil web day and night. Fortunes are made and lost there.

    It’s easy to get lost in New York. It’s easy to lose yourself. That’s where Maurice and I got lost. That’s where Maurice and I lost our Souls.

    Maurice and I are getting married in the City. It’s been a year since we murdered my husband. Do we love one another? Of course not! Vultures like us are heartless. But we have to keep an eye on each other.

    Don’t you realize that a corpse follows us around? My dead husband. I can still feel his breath on the back of my neck.

    While Maurice and I are walking through the City streets and looking at the different shop windows… he’s with us. When we’re dining out… he’s with us. When we’re at a club and dancing… he’s with us. And before we fall asleep at night… the corpse is still with us.

    I can see him in Maurice’s eyes, and he can see the corpse in mine. That uneasy feeling between us… that uneasy glance. That knowing look. Sometimes we just stare into space. Lost in our own thoughts. It feels like there is a wall between us. But it isn’t a wall. It’s a dead body.

    The corpse is in our hearts and in our minds. Shutting out rays of happiness and sunshine. Taking its toll on our lives. And the fear of being discovered constantly gnaws at us.

    Darkness is surrounding us. The lighting surrounding us is being displaced and lit up by darkness.

    His family didn’t have the body cremated. They didn’t have it cremated. I didn’t put up too much of an argument about it. I didn’t want anyone to become suspicious. But I would have felt better if the body was destroyed. Will they one day have it exhumed? But what could they find?

    Have you ever done something bad and regretted that you did it? But you can’t put the egg back in the shell. Neither can you put the Soul back in the body.

    And you’re not repentant and sorrowful out of regret for the deed, but out of fear of being caught.

    I still see my dead husband in cafes. In parks. In familiar places where we’ve been together. In the faces of men that look like him. And I see him smiling.

    Waiting patiently for us to make a false move. Waiting patiently for us to make a mistake. Waiting patiently for us to crack.

    And that is why Maurice, and I are inseparable. Our destinies are handcuffed together. It wouldn’t be so bad… just Maurice and me. But the corpse is also handcuffed to us.

    People change over time. Sometimes they become repentant and want to confess. Other times the strain of life and what they’ve done, drives them crazy. Maurice and I had to keep an eye on each other. We had to support one another. It was a matter of survival… not love.

    Did we have to keep an eye on Jarmon too? No! We soon realized, afterward, that the private investigator’s real business wasn’t private investigation, but murder for profit. He plays the part of a PI until the right opportunity comes along and then he plies his real craft. Murder! Maurice and I were the right opportunity.

    He reminded me of a book that I read by Dr. Edwin M. Hale. It’s entitled, The Great Crime of the Nineteenth Century. It was published in 1867.

    “The abortions occur most frequently among those who are known as the better class; among church members, and those generally who pretend to be most polite, virtuous, moral, and religious. A venal press — a demoralized clergy, the prevalence of (medical) charlatanism are the principal causes of the fearful increase of the abominable crime of criminal abortions.” (Section 1).

    “In their advertisements, their harangues to the public, their conversations with private visitors, or in their lectures, they are sure to let drop some hint, by which the unprincipled may imply what their secret business consists of. Follow these miscreants to their private consultation rooms, and you shall see where the most disgraceful scenes are enacted, and where hands and souls are stained by the blood of unborn babies.” (Section 2).

    Jarmon’s secret business, like theirs, was murder for profit.

    Don’t ever become rich. If someone should offer you a million dollars… turn them down. Or you’ll never know who your real friends are again. Or loved ones. Is that hug and twinkle in their eye because they’re glad to see you or are they thinking about your money?

    Don’t ever become rich. Or you’ll spend the rest of your life sleeping with both eyes open. And if you do fall asleep, don’t sleep too soundly. Or you’ll never hear your alarm clock ringing again.

    Crime does pay. Don’t let them deceive you. And premeditated murder is almost impossible to prove. Premeditated murders made to look like random crimes, or accidents, or drug overdoses. They’re well-planned executions. All you hear about are the people that get caught. Dummies. Most of these crimes that are planned are never solved. They don’t even know that a crime took place. Does a tree falling in a forest make a sound if there is no one around to hear it?

    Did you hear the one about the guy that accidentally fell in front of an oncoming train? Murder! Boating accident victim? Murder! Did you hear the one about the accidental drowning in the bathtub, and the victim had drugs nearby? She was high and fell asleep and drowned. Murder! Did you hear the one about the person, on vacation, that accidentally fell off a cliff or ledge while climbing or sightseeing? Murder! Someone accidentally falling overboard on a cruise ship? Murder! Someone accidentally drowning at the beach? Murder! Someone committing suicide in a jail cell? Premeditated Murder!

    I could go on and on. Don’t ever become rich. Or you’ll spend the rest of your life sleeping with both eyes open. And if you do fall asleep, don’t sleep too soundly. And pay attention to what you’re eating and drinking. Or you’ll never wake up again.

    The next day the cops will tell the news organizations that it was an accidental drug overdose. Or you accidentally took too much of a prescribed medication.

    And the police have no problem going along with the narrative. They don’t have to investigate. They won’t look bad. They won’t look incompetent. They found the killer. It was the deceased. How convenient.

    People are killers. Don’t be surprised that I believe that. Look at history. Look at all the wars. And don’t judge me and Maurice too harshly. We killed for a fortune. Many people kill their own babies to save a few bucks. Can you imagine what these people would do for a fortune? Don’t get sick or old around people like this.

    Don’t ever become rich. Or you’ll spend the rest of your life sleeping with both eyes open. And if you do fall asleep, don’t sleep too soundly. Especially in your own home. You don’t want to be left alone with your relatives. Those that will profit from your death. Those that are in the Will. Or you’ll wind up like one of those rich stars… accidental drug overdose.

    Would those rich stars still be alive today if they were poor? Without a doubt. Or do you believe that it was them – unnoticed, even though they were famous – that were standing on the street corners and buying drugs for themselves to use?

    Did those around them give them the final injection or pills that would take their lives? They certainly didn’t stop it.

    And let’s face it. If they spent as much time trying to get these stars off of drugs, as they did in acquiring the drugs for them… they would still be alive today.

    Don’t ever become rich. Or you’ll spend the rest of your life sleeping with both eyes open. And if you do fall asleep, don’t sleep too soundly. Or you’ll never wake up again.

    I’m tired. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a year.

    Photo by Tsvetoslav Hristov via Unsplash

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  • Hello World!

    Welcome to WordPress! This is your first post. Edit or delete it to take the first step in your blogging journey.

    Hi, I’m a writer that writes books and also short stories.

    The Christmas Tree series are thrilling holiday adventures filled with magic, mystery, and historical wonders. Margaret and her best friend Billy embark on a series of extraordinary journeys through time and space, all thanks to the magical Christmas Tree given to her by the mysterious Mr. Magi.

    Each decoration on the tree holds a secret, unlocking enchanted worlds, historical events, and even encounters with legendary figures. From the bustling streets of ancient Rome to mystical lands filled with elves and Hrinoffs, Margaret and Billy’s adventures bring them face-to-face with awe-inspiring and sometimes perilous experiences. Along the way, they uncover hidden lessons about courage, friendship, and the true meaning of the holiday spirit.

    Blending holiday magic with time-traveling excitement, The Christmas Tree series is a heartwarming and imaginative tale perfect for readers of all ages who believe in the wonder of Christmas and the power of adventure. And most importantly the power of Almighty God.

    You can go to Amazon.com and read free samples.

    https://shorturl.at/s1zFa

    https://shorturl.at/80lLk

    I also write short mystery stories and religious articles. You can go to https://johnsaccone.substack.com/p/artificial-intelligence or https://medium.com/@johnppjc/wine-9e7ff59c9a22

    View at Medium.com

  • Cuckold?

    Cuckold?

    I also write Christmas Holiday books. You can read free samples at Amazon.com

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  • Cuckold?

    Cuckold? I didn’t even know what the word meant.

    “It means your wife is being banged by another man,” said Jarmon.

    He didn’t explain it like that. He used the F word.

    Jarmon is a private investigator that I hired to follow my wife. I knew she was cheating on me. I could spot all the signs. Whenever I would enter a room and she didn’t notice me… when she did notice me, she would change the subject. Or walk out of the room. Or she wouldn’t answer her cell phone. And even when I left a message she didn’t get back to me. It was always the same excuse. I forgot to recharge the battery. And one night, while she was sleeping, I turned on the bedroom light and looked at her neck. I was right. It was a hickey. A so-called love bite.

    Jarmon told me the guy that she was having an affair with was Maurice Chevlet. A pretty ladies’ man that hung out in fashionable – rich – clubs on the East Side of Manhattan and preyed on gullible well-to-do women. He was also heavy-handed. And had been arrested twice for assaulting a woman. More than likely Barbie met him at one of those clubs.

    Barbie and I were married almost two years ago. And at the time I was hoping that we would spend the rest of our lives together. What is so strange is that when I met her, I had just recently divorced my second wife.

    At the time, I had it with women. They were costing me a fortune in divorce settlements. Everyone warned me that Barbie was a gold digger. Her real name is Barbara. She’s twenty-years younger than me. I’m forty-nine.

    My family warned me to stay away from her. All she wanted was my money. But I didn’t listen. How could I? Barbie is beautiful and stacked. And like the original Barbie doll… she had blond hair. I love blond haired women. Her hair was long and flowing and was a perfect complement to her gorgeous face.

    I tried to stay away. I really did. But I couldn’t stop thinking about her. After only two months of dating, we were married. But I wasn’t going to make the same mistakes that I did with my two previous wives. I was going to have her sign an iron clad pre-nuptial agreement. And one that stated that she had to be faithful, or she would not be entitled to anything. Both of my ex-wives cheated on me.

    But I knew even with an iron clad pre-nuptial agreement she would still walk away with a fortune. That’s just the way it is. I’m worth almost twenty million dollars. But my attorney told me that if she were unfaithful, that I would definitely have a big advantage in negotiating a settlement that would work in my favor.

    It was garbage that Jarmon gave me. What kind of PI is this? He gave me dates and times that they met, and photos. But none of the photos showed them in a compromised situation. They weren’t graphic enough. No nudity. They looked like they could be just friends.

    Jarmon told me it was very difficult to get the pictures that I wanted. My wife and Maurice were very careful. They would never kiss in public or even hold hands. And they made sure to always have the blinds closed.

    Jarmon suggested that I get the pictures myself. Tell my wife that I’m going on a business trip and later that night sneak back into my house and take pictures of them together in bed. It was that simple.

    I always carry a gun. It’s for protection. And even though it’s very difficult in New York to get a carry permit… money makes these things happen.

    It wasn’t enough to just take the pictures of them together in bed. I wanted to frighten them. I would take out my gun and threaten to kill both of them. Of course I wouldn’t do it. I’m not crazy. I’m a rich man and can easily find another woman. But I wanted to frighten them. Especially her. I really loved her and felt so hurt by her betrayal. We weren’t even married for two years.

    ** ** ** **

    Maurice and I are getting married. It’s been a year since we killed my husband. It wasn’t even our plan. It was private investigator Jarmon’s idea. He contacted us and we went to visit him in his office. It’s in midtown Manhattan.

    “Your husband knows about your affair,” said the P.I. while looking through a notebook. He handed it to me.

    It had the dates and times that Maurice and I met. We both went through it. And then he handed us photos of us being together and kissing. He even had a photo of us in front of my bedroom window, naked.

    I was stunned. There was a clause in my pre-nuptial agreement that if I were unfaithful, I would not get a cent. And I agreed to it.

    But Jarmon had a plan. If we were willing to kill my husband, I could get his money. And his fee for helping us was 200 thousand dollars.

    Jarmon looked at both Maurice and I intently and asked again, if we “were willing to kill my husband?”

    All three of us started laughing. The answer was obvious. I was never in the relationship for love but for money. And the thought of killing my husband had crossed Maurice’s mind and mine before. We even talked about doing it. We just didn’t know how. But Jarmon did. And he already started the plan in action.

    We waited that night in my bedroom for my husband. He told me earlier in the day that he had to go on a business trip for a few days. He even packed a bag.

    Maurice and I were on the bed with night clothes on. The lights were off. We heard my husband opening up the door and then he turned on the light. And Maurice – an excellent marksman – shot him twice in the chest. It was over. He was dead.

    We didn’t know if the cops would believe us. But we rehearsed our story with Jarmon a few times.

    He told us not to worry. To just stick to the script.

    The story was simple. We were sitting up in bed and talking, when my husband entered the room. He fired off a shot at us and Maurice grabbed his own gun that was on a night table and shot him.

    Of course, after we killed my husband, Maurice placed my husband’s gun in his hand and fired off a shot toward the bed.

    The fact that my husband lied and didn’t go on any business trip, but secretly came home, and had his own gun out, and shot at us, bolstered our defense. He was going to kill us. And of course, Jarmon told the police that my husband was aware of my infidelity. He showed them the notes and gave them the pictures. Including the one in my bedroom, where Maurice and I were naked. And Jarmon told the police that, before my husband left his office, he said, “I’m going to kill both of them.” That was a nice touch.

    After an investigation, no charges were pressed against us. It was justifiable homicide.

    The story will be continued in Cuckold 2.

    Photo by Tsvetoslav Hristov via Sunsplash

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