GILBERT

For twelve-ish hours of sunlight, I sleep in my nest of darkness. No light gets in my windows. They have cardboard taped to the glass, blackout blinds over that, and thick ass-curtains covering it all—not to mention my classy as all hell shutters on the outside. Yes, my house is a fine piece of real estate. I'm not even kidding, it looks fucking nice. It should. I do enough work on the damn thing. You'd be surprised how much productivity increases when the rest of the continent is asleep.

When it's dark out again and I can wake up, I do that. My phone says it's 11:48 PM.

"Should I say good morning even though it's night?" I ask no one.

No one doesn't reply. How rude.

I get up. I put on a pair of light grey boxers that someone (probably me) has written THESE ARE NOT CHEESE on in purple Sharpie. The letters aren't on the front or the back; they start in the dick area and creep around the side of my thigh, ending just before my tailbone starts getting ideas. I don't remember the creation of these boxers, but they were an excellent idea.

I wear my boxers and nothing else down into the kitchen. I eat two raw hot dogs, and put their condomy skins into the garbage can. Then I get a box of Lucky Charms from the cupboard, but I've already eaten all the marshmallows out, so I put it back.

"I mean." I regard the silence of my empty existence. It regards me right back, judging. "Fuck me, right?"

My fax machine starts spazzing out, which scares the hell outta me. I follow the sound into my office, AKA the living room, AKA the Fuck Floor. I stand on the nice, soft mat—made out of that squishy shit yoga fools like—and watch a small stack of papers get spit out by the fax machine. I had to buy this thing, can you believe it? With money, from my wallet. Russian Boss Man only sends physical paper, nothing digital. Too easy to corrupt stuff through the internet, he says. Safer to fax, and faster than mail. Fuck if I know if that's actually true, but it ain't my job to ask questions.

I rearrange the papers so they're in the right order. Everybody I'm hired to kill comes with a profile from my boss. He gets me the important but basic stuff. If I want more, I gotta dig it up myself.

I like going the extra mile and tailing the guy for a couple days. I watched the Spanish jackass for almost a week before I snatched him and took him for a tour of my basement. Gorgeous wife. Kinda yappy, like the dog, but good to look at. Kids seemed like nice enough little brats. And I guess the dude was a good dad. He hugged 'em, once, when they got home from school.

"Fuck you, daddy dearest," I say, addressing my own. Is he dead, too? I hope so. What a douche nozzle.

I read the papers. Then I feel very cold and read them again. I go back upstairs, still holding the papers, and get my phone out of my jeans.

"Hello."

"Ring ring what the fuck, Braginski?"

"This number is for important, work-related calls—"

"This is work-related. I got your fax. What the hell? How old is this kid? Twelve?"

"He is thirteen."

"Oh, well, hoo-fucking-ray, that makes everything hunky dory, ja? Christ's sake. What are you doing asking me to kill a kid?"

The paper is rustling noisily. My hands are shaking. I put the paper down on my unmade bed. It stares at me. I flip the stack over so I can't see the words. My rib cage feels haunted.

"I suspect you would feel uncertainty at first. This is understandable. Society has ingrained upon us that children and women's lives are worth more than those of common men. But you have no problems in the past killing women."

'Course not. Tits don't make any difference to me, unless you count them as something nice to look at while I kill the bitch. "Women ain't kids."

"Da. But is there a difference? What holds you back?"

He's getting into my head, like an alien. Burrowing through my ear. Twisting my synapses. 'Get outta my head." Fuck, I shouldn't have said that. Now he'll know he's getting to me. Shit shit shit. "Kids have their whole lives ahead. They ain't ruined yet."

"Well, when they are dead, they no longer have their lives ahead, and they are very ruined. So there should be no problem once you kill him."

"Come the fuck on." I knew he was heartless, but I thought everybody had a limit somewhere. The fuck is his? Who doesn't he kill? Dead people?

"Do not get me wrong. I do not wish to kill any other young children, nor would I accept money from someone looking for such a job to be done."

I go still. "Then who wants the kid dead?"

"I do. He was under my control until a few days ago, when he decided to run away. He is in hiding, but I do not have an exact location, only guesses. I do know he will not go to the police. He knows I have eyes on all the local stations, and he will be too afraid to be out of cover that long, anyway. He is a cowardly one. I was surprised when he ran off. And disappointed."

He sounds pretty damn disinterested to me. "What did you have a man that young for?"

"For the odd time I require a youthful, friendly face to manipulate or fool someone with. And for personal endeavors."

"You fucked this kid?" No secret about my boss's sexuality—he's had tons of dude prostitutes offed before, for tons of reasons—but there was never any mention of fucking kids. Jesus H. Christ. This isn't just some drug dealing nobody, this is a kid. An abused kid.

Fuck me.

"That is none of your concern," my boss replies, colder than usual, which is all the answer I need. "You will do the job. The timing is up to you, but have it done before this month is out. It should not take longer than that."

It's only the second day of August. No job has ever taken a whole month. If it was an adult, it'd take two weeks at the very most. But this? Fuckin' this?

"Do you agree to the job, Gilbert?"

He calls me by my name, like that makes this okay. Like that makes us good buddies rubbing shoulders at the fucking social club, oh pass the salt what cute umbrellas in the lemonade kill a fucking kid WHAT THE SHIT.

"Yeah," I say, because that is the easiest thing to do right now. An empty agreement.

"Good. You will call when it begins, and we will discuss payment when it is done." He hangs up.

I throw my phone at the mattress with enough force that it bounces off and sends the stack of papers to the floor, too. I crouch to pick up the phone, my bare chest burning, but then I freeze. The top paper has landed face-up, and the cute, innocent-looking boy stares up at me.

Raivis Galante.

I press my knuckles into my eyelids, but I still see his face. "Fuck. Me."