Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to "Sin City." All trademarks are rightfully owned by Frank Miller.
SIN CITY
Guns And Roses
"Freakapalooza"
Just do it. Pull the trigger. He's just one man. One out of six billion in the world. Pull it. Do it. Get it over with. Just pull the goddamn trigger.
BLAM!
Good Job.
Chapter One: The Last Hit
I breathed in the toxic fumes like there was no tomorrow. It felt good too. The deed was done, less weight on my shoulders anyway. If there was a list, don't why they call it a list, I would check his name off and go on to the next. Just two this time, nothing more, nothing less.
So I finally sit down on some old wooden chair after an hour of staring down on the cold streets below, standing. The chair feels relaxing but unsafe. Here I am in a random room, but perfect for the shot, in a random hotel with an open window in front of me. I should let the window down since it's over and it's cold, raining actually. But never mind that, time for another victorious gulp of fresh smoke from the cancer stick.
The sniper's long narrow barrel is still hot from the loud blast. I take another breath of hot smoke from my fresh victory cigarette, wondering why? I wonder what was the cause of my victim's death? I wonder and wonder, but a hitman such as myself only wonders and needs not to find out. But usually, one such as myself can only think that it's business. Only business.
My client, some I can't know off Mr. Smiley-Face, gave me two orders. Kill number one. And Kill number two. Simple. No problem. Satisfying. Just one problem. Number one was a little uneasy to kill. Why?
sizzle…
I take another whiff of my smokes stick, breathing in the fumes and ignoring the pressure of my uneasy hit. He was only a boy, about fifteen I would think. Lately, I've been growing kind of soft. Weak and conscious. I need to quit this. The boy I've killed whose now laying in the middle of the street cold, will forever give me an uneasy sleep. I promise you that. Soon enough someone will see him and scream. Soon.
My name's Saints. I'm single. I'm skilled. And I'm stressed. Typical. I notice that the sniper is still in the grasp of my right hand, so I drop it near me. It only took one shot, an uneasy shot, but one shot. After I take my break, killing myself with this cigarette, I'll make my way to Number Two. Simple.
Every last hitman out there has two rules to go by. I hate rules. Numero uno, never ask questions. That means at all costs. Can't ask my client why or how. Can't ask my victims who or when. Can't complain to both should or would. It's that simple. Number two is actually even more simple. Don't get sidetracked. No extra kills for an extra charge. And especially no women. Dames can be very deadly.
I get back on my feet and sigh with great relief, well not that great. I should get going now, got a long ways to go before they'll come. And that's something I don't want. Company.
I reach down for my snipe and cough. Those sticks were a little tough on my lungs tonight, but it didn't bother me much. I felt a bit cold and sick in the stomach, you know those disgusting feelings in your pit. So I close the window and started my way to the door. Could be the cold you know. But death got ways to make himself smile and you scream. I just don't scream.
I grabbed the doorknob, cold and just there like any other dead body in Basin City, but it was my dizziness that got me. If not that, I would have guess the door was locked. Then I fell, flat on my back. Sniper, rounds, everything dropped cold like me. I knew it was something outside of my bounds. Outside of this case. Someone found me. Someone knew. But how?
I couldn't feel much of anything really. Just the coldness of the night and a very chilling and sick smell in my lungs.
Ssss…
Dammit! The Vents! But why waste you energy on that? It was already too late. The gas had long since poured into you. I should never had closed the window. Soon everything was fading away, and the last thing I heard was the door opening…
Damn window.