Easy Lover
The occasional hitman never watches Jersey Shore. He's from New York. He has certain standard, you know. And he doesn't like New Jersey at all. People here are even ruder than your average New Yorker, and the air is bad beyond imagination. He's glad he doesn't have to return half the money. He's a bit upset he didn't get to kill the limp cop, but hey, he's definitely not complaining. It's not everyday you got somebody to do your job for you for free. He thinks of the blonde and feels like sighing. How come beautiful women with this particular hair color tend to be stupid? He has just looked into his employer's cold emotionless eyes and explained to the old man why he wrote "It Wasn't Me" in his niece own blood beside her still warm dead body.
He always likes to leave a message. Not to taunt or challenge the police. He just feels the need to tell the world something. Maybe to prove that he doesn't kill for no reason. Maybe to persuade the ghosts of his victims that they had it coming. Maybe it's just fun doing it. He doesn't know the true answer. He's no Freud, Jung or Plato. He's just a half-Irish half-Russian American born in Brooklyn. And he's pretty good at what he's doing. He doesn't feel sorry for the old man. He doesn't feel sorry for the grieving Mob Prince. People die everywhere, every day. We all have to go down this path. We all get what we deserve at the end of the day. He walks out of the little cozy little dinner, melts into the the crowd and disappears without a trace.
And yes, Karma does exist.