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A Worse Idea 21

The hitman crouched over Katie’s body, ready to get to work.

First, he wanted her eyes. He placed his pointer fingers on the top and bottom sides of her eye socket. He pushed back until the bones broke.

He reached carefully, cupping the eyeball with his thumb and middle finger. He pulled, taking both the eye and optic nerve out of her head.

He then tilted his own head towards the floor. His plastic eye, still half-melted from the fight the night before, was expelled, a mechanism behind his eye socket pushing the plastic out.

He tilted his head back again, dangling the eyeball above the now-empty socket. The optic nerve slipped into his eye socket. The rest of the eye followed.

He did the same thing with Katie’s other eye.

The eyes were what he’d come for, but after the fight last night, he also needed a skin graft.

He found her suitcase. Rummaged through it and found a gun, but no knife.

Damn, he thought. That surprised him, because he almost never thought. But he shook the idea off. Didn’t matter at the moment.

He took a deep breath. Took the hotel keycard she’d left on a desk and opened the door.

In the elevator and down to the lobby. He raced towards the buffet, hoping to find a fork and knife there. There was a buffet going on, a row of steaming hot trays filled with fruit and breakfast food. A chef stood behind the trays, making sure everything was satisfactory.

At the very back of the line, before you got to any of the foods, there was silverware. The hitman found a fork, but the tray where all the knives were supposed to be was empty.

“You alright, sir?” the chef asked him.

“Yes,” the hitman said.

“You look a little roughed-up.”

The hitman was thankful he couldn’t blush. He wasn’t good at talking to other people. Then again, he’d never cared before whether or not he was good at it.

“Skin condition,” the hitman said.

“Mhm, right,” the chef said. “Is there anything I can help you with, Mr…?”

The hitman realized the chef was asking for his name. The hitman panicked. He didn’t really know what his name was. He had a manufacturing number, sure, but that didn’t sound particularly name-like.

He looked at the chef’s name tag. It read, “Randy.”

So the hitman said, “Randy.”

“My name’s Randy,” the chef said.


“You’re saying your name’s Randy?”


The chef eyed the hitman now known as Randy suspiciously. “What can I help you with, Randy?”

“Knife?” Randy the hitman asked.

“Ah, yes! I see we’re out. Just give me one moment.” The chef ran off to get some more silverware.

Randy stood there awkwardly, while people around him got their plates, silverware, and food. The few people who passed him forewent the knife, since there weren’t many foods at the buffet that needed the one. The pancakes were the trouble, really. But the people who passed him didn’t care for pancakes.

The chef came back with a handful of knives. He placed all but one in the tray where they belonged. The last one he handed to Randy.

“Thank you,” Randy said, taking the knife.

Silverware in hand, but with neither plate nor food, Randy went back upstairs.

The chef found that odd, but shrugged it off. The man might’ve had food upstairs. Or, and this seemed like a strong possibility, he was just a nutjob.

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