Contract Killer

TO: Anon387731

Target is Edward Weymiller. His daily routine involves going to the coffee shop on Ambrose Ave and Hillhurst Ave, for breakfast and lunch. 20,000 USD will be wired upon proof of his death.

FROM: Anon915574
_____

The underworld of modern crime is a vast one. Whether it's cyber crimes holding companies for millions, or the simple run-and-gun hit at a cafe, everyone in it can recount on how they made their way into the seedier, grittier version of society they now call home.

In fact, you are

>Eddy, a former store owner that lost everything in the 2008 Recession.

>Todd, a former security guard that due to lack of work, were unable to renew your license.

>Richard, a ex-con who's done time in the past, but for nothing violent.

>Eddy, a former store owner that lost everything in the 2008 Recession.

You stir awake in the passenger seat of your old '01 Mustang, one of the only things you still have from the better days. Better days being before the '08 crash, when you owned and ran a hardware store in Glendora, the outskirts of greater Los Angeles. When your wife was still with you, and your kids still talked to you, and when your Mustang was in the house's driveway; not serving as your house. Now unemployed and living out of the muscle car, you're unsure of where to go next in life.

Wiping the grogginess from your eyes, and taking in the early morning neon of Koreatown, you open the glovebox, taking an inventory of your more valuable items.

>800 USD in mixed bills
>California driver's license expired in 2015
>Your dad's old Smith and Wesson revolver. You don't know the specific model, just that it holds 5 rounds and shoots .357 Magnum.

You can't live forever like this.

Stepping out of your son's sleeping bag, given to you by your now ex-wife, you slide over the car's center console. You take a glimpse of yourself in the mirror; you haven't shaved in ages, but you aren't quite homeless-beard tier yet. Taking note to shave in some park's sink sometime soon, you start the car, strumming your fingers on the sun-damaged steering wheel.

A thought to go to your old college friend Marty peeks in mind. He was definitely shady, but seemed nice enough then. Maybe he'd have some work to do with that strip club of his.

You shift the car into first, and ease off. You head down Vermont Avenue until you reach the I-10, where you then head west until Venice Boulevard. Recognizing Marty's place almost immediately, you park in the back.

Trotting through the front was easy once you told the bouncers you were there to see Marty. One guides you to the back, where you see your former college roommate angrily talking on the phone.

"Look! I don't give a shit! Just get it done or I swear to the lord almighty Jesus Christ, I will come down there myself! Capisce!?"

He hangs up, resting both arms on his table. He then looks up, and notices you with a grin; bright white teeth contrasting against olive skin.

"Eddy? Shit, sorry you had to see that. Take a seat."

He clicks his tongue, the bouncer leaving the room and shutting the door behind you. Marty removes a bottle from underneath his table, and pours himself a glass.

"I'd ask if you want a drink, but you clearly need one."

You share a chuckle as you both take sips from your glasses.

"But Eddy, my guy, the hell happened to you? You look like shit."

He asks with a concerning expression, resting slyly on one elbow.

"I uh. Lost everything after the crash. Wife kicked me out, kids don't talk to me, I've been living outta my car for the past while... And I was wondering if I could- If you had any work for me to do, just for some cash."

He nods, whilst licking his lips.

"Alright, I guess I'll just get to it. Are you alright with killing someone?"

His words drop like a bomb, you're left stammering and clambering for something to say.

"'Cause I'll pay you a thousand to wack some dipshit who stole one of my cars the other weekend."

It was a running joke among your friends that Marty was in the mob, calling him "Don" and constantly quoting The Godfather at him.

But this, this was serious indeed.

"It's not like it'll end up on the news, it's just some fucking nigger. How many of them die every day on these streets, eh?"

Your fingers tremble on your knees, the image of the Smith and Wesson in your glovebox comes to mind.

"F-fuck, I'll do it."

The Italian reaches for a desk drawer, and removes a cell phone, tossing it to you. It's a old Nokia, the type you can play Worm on.

"Burner phone. I'll message you the shit on him once you leave."

You nod, slipping the phone into your pocket as you stand up, pushing your chair in.

A few hours later, you receive a message on the burner phone.

"Tavion Washington. Skinny, tall, and dark. Lives on Washington Ave, off Compton Boulevard. Stashes in a parking garage in Koreatown, and works at a chop shop between Imperial and Fernwood, on Alameda street. Your pick on where to get him. I'll get you a bonus if you get my car back too. 2016 Mercedes, should stick out like a sore thumb. Black paint, plate starts with 5AE."

>Get him at the parking garage
>Get him at his house
>Get him at his workplace

>Get him at the parking garage.

The parking garage seems like the best option. At his house he'd have the home base advantage, and at the chop shop he'd still have the location advantage, but he'd also have his friends there too.

You turn the key in the Mustang's ignition, the once-pedigree V8 engine turning over and starting. You pull out from the McDonalds you had waited at for a while, and head up Vermont Avenue, puttering among the 6 PM traffic until you spot the entrance to the parking garage in question.

Fortunately, the structure is only three floors, and you figure the second floor is the best place to hide something. As such, you crawl the Mustang along the rows of cars until a black Mercedes takes your eye. Referencing the plate on the car to the plate texted to you, it's a match. You park across the aisle from the European luxury sedan, and open the glovebox, taking a firm grip of the Smith and Wesson's handle as you start brainstorming ideas.

>Sabotage the Mercedes so Tavion has difficulties
>Break into the Mercedes, and wait there for him to get into the car
>Confront him once he comes for the car
>Write in

>Sabotage the Mercedes so Tavion has difficulties, then play the role of a man who offers to help, and then pop him when he's not looking.

You pull the revolver out of the glovebox and tuck it into your waistband, shutting the box afterwards. After making sure the hem of your shirt conceals the gun well enough, you step out of the Mustang, carefully looking around the structure for other people. You then quickly cross the aisle, reaching the black Mercedes.

You walk around it, looking into the interior of the C-Class for any clues; something that may pop an idea.

The transmission seems like a good place to start.

You crouch down infront of the grill, and shimmy your hand into the grill of the car. Feeling around near the back of the badge, your fingers find the mechanism for the hood latch. You feel around some more, getting a idea for its construction, and yank down. The hood pops open, and you immediately lift it up, and set the prop for it.

...

New cars are way different compared to your Mustang. Your fingertips trace over the plastic coverings on... pretty much everything, until you recognize a key component: The fuse box; responsible for all the electrics in the car.

You pop it off, and start reading the diagram's minuscule font. A readjustment in your stance presses the gun against your calf, making your heart jump a bit as you remember what you're here for. Pushing the idea out, you find the transmission fuses in the diagram, and promptly yank them out, stuffing them into your pocket. You snap the box shut, and close the hood as you make your way back to the Mustang, and wait.

Only a hour or so later, a black man comes out of the elevator, and heads towards the black Mercedes. He slides himself into the driver's seat, and starts the car. However, you can hear clunking sounds from the transmission, and muffled cussing inside. The hood latch pops open, and Tavion hops out, propping the hood open like you did only a while before.

You walk across the aisle for the third time, your hands free from your waistband.

"Havin' car trouble?"

He clicks his tongue once, nodding in your direction from under the hood.

"Yeah doo', tranny started throwin' a fit."

You gulp, carefully deciding the next words as you stand behind him.

"Maybe it's something with the fuses?"

He clicks his tongue again, giving you a rather exaggerated nod.

"Shit, shit, you righ'."

As he leans over the engine bay to pop off the fuse box, the back of his head is in the perfect place. You feel disconnected from yourself as you withdraw the Smith and Wesson from your waist, and hold it in a two-handed grip. Taking in a deep breath, you hold it as you line the sights up, your hands making the gun twitch and squirm in your grasp. Your index finger trembles as you coil it through the trigger guard. Closing your eyes and wincing, you squeeze the trigger until it releases back.

The resulting bang leaves your ears ringing. As you stammer, trying to recuperate your sense of hearing, you open your eyes. Tavion, since gone limp with a bullet hole in the back of his head, a river of blood rapidly flowing from it, slowly slides off the car and onto the ground, giving you a view of the blood, brains, and bullet hole left on the car in front of him.

The ringing slowly dies down, the cacophony of car alarms sounding like a digital opera from hell. As you pant and robotically put your gun away, the reminder in Marty's text about the bonus comes back to mind. You dig into your pocket, numbly finding the fuses. Taking care to step over the formerly-alive body, you wipe the brain and other gunk off of the fuse box's cover, and open it, neatly placing them back in their slots. Still numb and feeling like you're controlling a puppet of yourself, you kneel down, and quickly inspect the front of the car. There's a small blood smear from where Tavion slid off the car, but nothing else that would point to a murder lies on the Mercedes's front.

You elect to leave the Mustang there for the night, while you deliver the Mercedes after washing it and such. The sight of Tavion's lifeless form casting a shadow on the wall as you back up makes you slam on the brakes, pop the door open, and hurl onto the floor.

Your system purged, you slowly putter the vehicle down the garage, and out onto the street. As you mindlessly pilot it to a self-wash place, you shiver as you realize that someone was killed over this car. You killed someone over this car. For money. You shake those thoughts out of your head; you have your reasons... right?

You slip a few coins into the machine, and begin pressure washing the blood and other assorted body bits off of the front. Trying not to let passerby see it, you stand with your legs together directly in front of the mess, letting out a breath of relaxation as you see the mess run down the drain.

After the wash, you hop back in, and drive to Marty's club, taking care to park in a spot hidden from the street.

"Hey man, you alright?"

Asks one of the bouncers; for a hitman, you don't do a great job of hiding it.. yet.

"Yeah, jus' tired, s'all."

He nods, and lets you in. You don't bother knocking on Marty's door, instead just opening it and taking a seat in front of his desk.

His back to you, he starts cussing.

"Who the fuck just barges into my fucking office witho-"

The Italian recognizes you, and more importantly, your expression.

"You did it?"

No words come to your mouth, instead, you nod.

"And?"

You choke a bit on nothing, then gather yourself, and talk for the first time since murdering a man.

"Y-your car's in the back."

His eyebrows raise; he clearly hadn't expected that. He whistles, putting a hand on your shoulder.

"Ho-lee shit Eddy, I'm impressed. Like I said, there's a bonus. A 5-G bonus."

So you killed a man not for a thousand dollars, but for six thousand dollars.

He sits back down, and pours himself and you a drink like earlier today.

"Shit, that was your first kill. Huh. Don't worry, you get used to it. It's not nice, definitely not pretty, but it's a living. And that's what counts. Keep that burner, I may have something else for you coming up."

You both take long sips from your glasses. As Marty's mind drifts off, he snaps his fingers, making a "Mf!" sound. Setting his drink down, he rests his elbow on the table, pointing a finger right at you.

"You're living out of that Mustang, are you?"

You look to the side and down, holding your head in shame.

"Yup."

For some reason, his smile widens.

"Well shit! You see, we just got a new safe house to help hide some money, and we need someone to live in it. The way I figure it, you ain't a rat, and you're not dumb enough to try to take my shit and run."

You're not sure if you're going delirious from killing the black guy earlier, but this doesn't sound right at all.

"I'll text you the address and shit. Besides, there's more in it for me. You're reliable, and I don't want you getting pulled over for a taillight or some shit and having an arsenal in your back seat or somethin'."

Later, you're dropped off at the base of the parking garage. You play it cool, acting surprised to see the crime scene where the Mercedes was parked. However, you keep to yourself as you get into the Mustang, and pull away, waiting until you're on the road to move the gun to the glovebox. It's a quick drive to your new place; it's in Watts, which is in no means a good neighborhood, but you figure it at least means cops won't be around so often.

You lift the third plant pot as directed, and remove the key from underneath, unlocking the door. The inside of the house is totally empty aside from the basic appliances and an air mattress. However, considering that it's not the passenger seat of a '01 Mustang, it's pretty good. Now, about that money...

>Go clothes shopping
>See if Marty has any gun dealers
>Write in