You’re name’s Tommy, and you’re a hitman.
Not an “assassin” or a “samurai” or a “ninja” or anything else somebody who plays too many video games would say. You kill people for money, and you’re good at it. You aren’t proud, but you like the money.
Tommy isn’t the name your family or your friends or your boyfriend call you. It’s your professional name. Because you’ve got dark hair and a tan, you could be Tommy Monaghan from Ireland, or Tommaso di Pietro from Italy, or Tomas Salinas from Puerto Rico. That way almost everybody feels comfortable hiring you.
Today you’re working on the weirdest hit you ever had to do. You’re whacking a fluffy.
Normally if anybody asked you to kill a shitrat you’d laugh or slug them. You’re not an exterminator, you’ve got some pride.
But when old Mr. Charles Contini himself comes to the greasy spoon you hang out in, buys you lunch, and implies that the whole Family would be grateful if you did him a favour, your principles are more flexible.
You know this fluffy herd’s somewhere near Mr. Contini’s place, so you start there and drive around in widening circles. After a while, you see a bunch of day-glo-looking things grazing in a paddock, with a couple of real horses looking at them a bit funny. You get your binoculars out and focus on the centre of the herd. Big green-and-white fucker with a horn. Bingo.
Mr. Contini was very specific that he wanted this one fluffy dead, but that you were to spare all the other shitrats. No idea why, but the customer’s always right. If it was up to you, you’d use your rifle from right here and not have to get your boots muddy, but would you believe it, he wants this done up-close-and-personal. Even wants you to give a message to the fucker, make sure he knows why he’s getting whacked.
You climb over the fence of the paddock and walk towards the fluffies. Most of them scatter warily, but your target and few other bigger ones stand their ground. When you get close to them, the freak actually starts yelling at you.
“Dis am Cwambone hewd wand! Big fwuffies nu mind if fwuffies num gwass! What hooman want?”
You sprint at Crambone (glad he used his name, no chance you’re making a mistake) and grab him by his front legs, then pull them outwards hard. You feel them dislocate and Crambone shrieks with pain. An absolute geyser of shit sprays out of his ass in his panic, as it does from most of the other fluffies you can see. Holy crap, now you know why people call them “shitrats”. You drop him back on the ground, when he yells “MONSTAH! WUN!”. Most of his buddies do run away crying, but one stays there and, would you believe it, gives you the stink-eye.
“Why monstah hooman huwt Cwambone?”, the fluffy asks, surprisingly calm despite his pain.
“'Cos I’m being paid to”, you say. You pull out your pistol and one of your burner phones. “I dunno why, but someone else does.”
You find the sound recording on your phone and hit play, and you’re astonished to hear a squeaky fluffy voice.
“Bwuebonnet happeh wib Sandeh and Daddeh. Bwuebonnet nevveh wub meaneh Cwambone evah. CWAMBONE NUM POOPIES IN HEWW!”
“Owww, guess the lady really doesn’t like you”, you say. Crambone’s face twists in anger at whatever thoughts are going through his head, just before a .221 Fireball does.
The other fluffy trembles, but still glares at you.
“Monstah hooman wan huwt Fatboy?”
“No”, you say, “Unless you give me any trouble.”
The other fluffy looks hangdog. “Fatboy awways teww Cwambone fowget bout Bwuebonnet, pwenty mawes wan be smawteh speciaw fwiend. But Cwambone fwuffed in head abowt hew.”
You’ve heard less sympathetic epitaphs. You take a photo of the dead Crambone to send to Mr. Contini’s burner phone, and head for home.
There will be another part or more, but I’m still considering the plot and the relative happiness or not of the ending
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