Mood Piece (Hitman)

Teeth. Rows of white teeth. They twinkle in the dark like stars in the night sky. Creeping from behind lips that peel back in glee. Glee as he sits in the shadows, and red blood runs. Blood like an emergency on the sidewalk, speeding out of bullet wounds, and him, gun in hand, inside the car, watching in glee. Those teeth glistening beneath street lights as some new mirthful murder scene unfurls itself across asphalt and in front of panicked peers crouched behind parked cars. Silently, he leaves the screams behind, that chaos in the darkness.

Zips off into the night. Another deed done, another dollar earned. Back to the bathroom, where he washes his hands. It is a methodical process: soap over hands, scrub fifteen times. He ensures that his teeth and his hair are in exactly the right place. Perfection. With a wave of his hand, he scrapes casings from the passenger seat. Gun wiped clean, safely stowed. He holds his hands out, and the keys come to him because inanimate objects, just like people, are drawn to him. No effort needed. Everything put back neatly in place because he, like a zero, never exists. He was never here.

Bursts back into the night on some other deviant mission. The thrill of the kill nipping at his heels as he goes to the places where he knows he belongs: with the other people who never exist, inside some sweaty hole, naked and writhing. A time like this is a time to fuck, that faceless, rabid, itching fucking with strangers without names and bodies without souls. Fuck and fuck and fuck and fuck. Not to feel something, and not to feel nothing, but to be in the only way he knows to be: flushed with instinct.

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