Kill Du Jour
A man leans over a quivering body, a sharp smile curling his evil lips. He watches as the life drains away from the person at his feet. Nothing gives him more pleasure than admiring his handy work.
He waits until the body is still to pull out the weapon protruding from its chest. The sound of the pen sliding through the skin sends shivers of excitement down his spine. He wipes the ballpoint on the corpse's fancy suit and tucks it back into the pocket he borrowed it from.
Sirens echo through the air and the man decides it's time to go. He clicks his tongue condescendingly at the rapidly cooling body before walking calmly away. He knows the cops won't catch him; they never have. He doesn't need to run.
He will collect his money later, he decides. For now, he just wants to sleep. He walks deeper into New York's Hell's Kitchen. He is not afraid of the crime that runs barely controlled through the burrow. He doesn't need to; the petty thugs and pickpockets fear him too much.
The man stops in front of a seedy motel in the heart of the slums. He stares at the woman sitting behind the check-in desk and sneers cruelly at her attempt to squeeze into a bra half her size.
She is reciting a list of instructions in a bored, unconcerned voice. He ignores her. He has no need for rules; they are meant for lesser men.
He follows her swishing bottom to a damp room and pushes her out before she can continue her useless lecture.
His sneer widens as he listens to her cursing him under her breath behind the rickety door. He doesn't bother to lock it; no one would dare disturb him. No one is that stupid.
He lays down on the musty, stained bed, turning to face the dying neon sign blinking outside his dusty window. The pleasant melody of sirens and gunshots lull him to sleep.
He dreams happy dreams of bloodshed and mayhem. His cold smile remains like an etching on the cold stone of his face.
He wakes up to the sound of a fly buzzing around his head. He barely opens his eyes as he feels for a paperclip on the nightstand. The freezing smile returns when the noise suddenly stops, his wire having found its mark.
He leans back against the peeling walls, thinking in rhythm to the rumbling subway beneath him. He remembers his latest kill. The memory makes his blackened heart glow.
The smell of burning newsprint wafts up from the broken window. His mouth turns sour and his smile is replaced with a deep frown as the smell reminds him of the city's resident hero.
The smile returns. The hero doesn't matter. He's learned that it's the good guys who always lose.
And he's no good guy.
A/N: If "du jour" means anything other than "of the day", Google translations has some explaining to do. Thanks to The Clocks Were Striking 13 for reminding me how much I love Bullseye. Oh and thanks ModernScribe.
Beta Note: Personally I don't like the present tense. I told her to get rid of it, but she wouldn't listen. Anyway, I just thought I'd drop my two cents in because my sister has been pretty lax in the credit department. I'll have you know I was up until 2 AM reading this, so please excuse any mistakes I might have missed. She wouldn't let me sleep until I was finished and I'm very tired. Signed, ModernScribe.