Your Darkest Dreamspell

Enjoy this Anthology excerpt from one of the stories—“There are Two Asses in Assassin” by Randy Rohn
“You don’t look like a hit man,” the man who didn’t look like a CEO said to me.
“I prefer the term assassin,” I said. Assassin, to me, seemed to have a more professional ring to it. Hit man seemed to diminish the profession. My job wasn’t to hit anyone, that’s what boxers do. My job was to do what assassins do.
“Well, you don’t look like an assassin either.” His name was Frank Byrd, the owner and CEO of “Perfectly Frank’s Haberdashery” chain. However, by the way his boxy medium gray suit fit him, or rather didn’t, he looked about as much like a guy that could dash habers as I did an assassin.
“Why are you smiling?”
“Oh, sorry, it’s nothing,” I said.
“I said you don’t look like an assassin.”
“What does an assassin look like?”
“Well, you know, sleek.”
I hadn’t been what you call sleek since high school. I vowed then and there to go on a diet.
“And I wouldn’t say you’re a spiffy dresser,” he said.
I wanted to say, look who’s talking. But I had to admit, being dressed in what we used to call a sweatsuit probably wasn’t the image most people have of assassins. They see movies with professional pretty people like Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, and think we all dress in tuxes and cocktail dresses—not that I’d be caught dead in a cocktail dress. The reason I wear a sweatsuit is because my weight fluctuates. Unfortunately, it never fluxes downward.
“Let’s get down to business, Mr. Byrd.” I had to take back control of the conversation. I’m very picky about who I let hire me. I wasn’t used to being treated like I was the one on a job interview.
“So, how long have you been doing this thing you do?”
“Twenty-three years in December,” I said. Since it was January, I wondered if he would figure last December or the one coming up. It was the one coming up, but he didn’t ask the question.
“That’s a long time. They say you’re the best.”
“I’ve never even seen the inside of a courtroom, and neither have any of my clients,” I answered, honestly.
“I even heard you’re the guy that whacked Jimmy Hoffa.”
I wasn’t. I was ten when Hoffa disappeared, but I didn’t correct him. I like having a rep.
“I don’t like the term, whacked.” That would make me a whack man or a whacker. That didn’t sound cool at all.
That seemed to satisfy him.
“Okay, tell me your terms.”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand in cash, non-sequential bills, up front and another two hundred and fifty when the job’s completed.”
He whistled and closed his eyes for a couple of beats.“That’s serious money.”
“This is serious business.”
“Still…”
“Plus expenses,” I added.
“Expenses? What kind of expenses?”
“Whatever I deem necessary.”
“How will I know it’s necessary?”
“Because I say so.”
“Does that include meals?”
I never thought about it.
“Yes.” Visions of sizzling steaks were dancing in my head. The diet could wait.
“Will you fill out an expense report? Give me receipts?”
“Of course not.”
He shook his head slowly. My asking price was too much for him, I could tell.
“I think you should fill out an expense report.”
“No way,” I said.
“What about mileage?”
“Yep. That’s an expense.”
“Gas?”
“Yes.”
“You’re going to charge me both mileage and gas? That’s not fair.”
“What I do for a living isn’t fair.” I wasn’t quite sure what that meant. But I wanted this conversation to be over. The man was obviously in sticker shock.
“I just don’t think it’s worth it.”
“Okay, that’s fine with me. This conversation never happened. We never met,” I said as I got up to leave the table.
“No, no, sit down. I got the cash.”
Oh crap.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
I knew this day would come.
You see, although I’m a professional assassin, I have three problems. One, I never could spell the word assassin. There always seem to be too many Ss. Two, I’m not a very good shot. I practice and practice, but I still can’t seem to hit the bull’s eye or anyone else’s for that matter.
And three, well three is the biggie. I’ve never actually killed anyone.