The Professional fin

After I collected what was mine it was late afternoon. My car had been stolen but that was hardly surprising. It was okay by me. I felt like a million bucks when I came out of the alley and started walking down the hill. The obscene shadows were entertaining and the icy wind blowing through my open coat felt refreshing.

I was invigorated. Another Job was already calling. I paced down the streets with purpose, ready to meet my new client. I chuckled a little to think that only a few hours before I had despaired of ever feeling warm again, of ever knowing another hot meal.

The pull of the Job directed me towards the commercial side of town. The streets were busy. Everyone sped hither and yon, hurried to be elsewhere, trying to get away from work. A professional doesn’t go home before the Job is done, though.

An old woman strained her frail body, forcing it to cross the street. The lights were prepared to change and the drivers were anxious to be on their way. They didn’t want to wait for some old lady. But as I watched the scene the revolver told me what Job I needed to do.

People screamed. A lot of them jumped out of their cars. One man tried to run me over, but I was too nimble. I knew what to do. I was a professional. I did my Job.

No sooner had I tucked the revolver away than the call of the next Job started surging through me. The drivers and pedestrians were all frozen in place. The awe they must have felt at seeing a Job done by a professional was evident. I was flattered. Their inability to move afforded me time to listen for the pull of the Job.

The pull never came. The Job had to be close. The noise was almost too much; I almost couldn’t hear it when the revolver whispered the next Job to me. I listened a moment longer to be sure I heard correctly.

I never argued with a client. I was a professional.

I reached into my pocket.