They had always said, that Jackson looked young.
But as he laid here, with his shirt pulled up, you really saw it. He was 23, but his stomach was flat with just a slight marking of what could have become a six-pack, had he gotten a few more years alive. He could have spend them in the gym, but he never got that far.
His chest was the same - no big muscles, but still you could see that a little bit of work could have made the body of a man.
Well, nobody really cared about that now, because Jackson didn't breathe anymore.
I'm proud to call that my handy work.
There was nothing personal behind it - I had no beef with him, but we all need to make a living, and my craft is all I've got.
You see, Jackson - pretty as he was - lacked brains. He wasn't very smart, so when he got into some shady business with some shady dudes - and failed to pay because he snorted most of the drugs himself, they called me. Jackson was becomming a liabillity, so he had to go.
Getting him was easy - I followed him for a couple of days and found out where he used to sell.
I posed as a customer, which was not easy as I've never taken any of that shit - but hey, you don't wanna know that, you wanna know how he died, dont you...? Pervert... ;-)
Well, I've nothing better to do, so let me walk you through the death of Jackson.
I lured him into my car - told him I couldn't be seen buying drugs in public. Dumb as he was, he followed me willingly.
We drove to a warehouse I knew - I once loaded there in my former career, but the rescession made my skills behind the wheel and the warehouse redundant. Now it stood empty and I still had a key.
I took him in. He had no idea what was happening, who I was or that he would soon draw his last breath. At some point he turned his back on me - and I made my move.
I went up behind him and put him in a sleeper hold - he started gasping for air.
I bend him backwards - his t-shirt went up, revealing his sagging pants, the waistband of his boxers and a small stripe of his stomach.
I pulled his shirt up, so it was just above his navel and then slowly I sunk my blade into his belly button. He started moaning - nothing loud or screamish, but silently and gasping. A small stripe of blood started running down against his CK boxers.
He got limp and I let him fall to his knees, I took out my knife and while holding him up, I slowly stabbed him in his belly button again. Same silent moaning, he almost sounded as if he was running out of air.
I pulled his shirt further up and slowly retracted my knife, just to ram into the center of his torso. He shook a little and by now he moaned a bit louder, but it all stopped when I pulled the knife back out.
I let him fall to the ground - he landed on his back with his arms spread to both sides. I pulled his shirt all the way up. No chest hairs, nothing around the nipples, my last stab was slowly but directly into his heart. I heart him moan and the last thing coming from Jackson was a silent breath as his head turned to the left.
Carefully I put my ear to his bare chest. No heart beat, no breathing sounds - just warm, soft skin against my ear. I kind of fell sorry for the kid, so I gently stroke him down his stomach as if to assure him, that he wasn't alone when he died... Ironic, I know - but who says assasins can't have a conscience.
His skin was soft and warm - a big difference to my own hands, who were rough and worn after 20 years of hard work.
I left the building, got my money and drove out of town.
New targets waiting, more money to be earned...
-------
This was my first try at writing a story.
I shall be the first to inform you, that english is not my first language, so any mistakes or wrong grammar is simply due to the fact, that I'm Danish.
I hope you enjoy this little story from my twisted imagination ;-)
Thanks for reading, and have a good one.
But as he laid here, with his shirt pulled up, you really saw it. He was 23, but his stomach was flat with just a slight marking of what could have become a six-pack, had he gotten a few more years alive. He could have spend them in the gym, but he never got that far.
His chest was the same - no big muscles, but still you could see that a little bit of work could have made the body of a man.
Well, nobody really cared about that now, because Jackson didn't breathe anymore.
I'm proud to call that my handy work.
There was nothing personal behind it - I had no beef with him, but we all need to make a living, and my craft is all I've got.
You see, Jackson - pretty as he was - lacked brains. He wasn't very smart, so when he got into some shady business with some shady dudes - and failed to pay because he snorted most of the drugs himself, they called me. Jackson was becomming a liabillity, so he had to go.
Getting him was easy - I followed him for a couple of days and found out where he used to sell.
I posed as a customer, which was not easy as I've never taken any of that shit - but hey, you don't wanna know that, you wanna know how he died, dont you...? Pervert... ;-)
Well, I've nothing better to do, so let me walk you through the death of Jackson.
I lured him into my car - told him I couldn't be seen buying drugs in public. Dumb as he was, he followed me willingly.
We drove to a warehouse I knew - I once loaded there in my former career, but the rescession made my skills behind the wheel and the warehouse redundant. Now it stood empty and I still had a key.
I took him in. He had no idea what was happening, who I was or that he would soon draw his last breath. At some point he turned his back on me - and I made my move.
I went up behind him and put him in a sleeper hold - he started gasping for air.
I bend him backwards - his t-shirt went up, revealing his sagging pants, the waistband of his boxers and a small stripe of his stomach.
I pulled his shirt up, so it was just above his navel and then slowly I sunk my blade into his belly button. He started moaning - nothing loud or screamish, but silently and gasping. A small stripe of blood started running down against his CK boxers.
He got limp and I let him fall to his knees, I took out my knife and while holding him up, I slowly stabbed him in his belly button again. Same silent moaning, he almost sounded as if he was running out of air.
I pulled his shirt further up and slowly retracted my knife, just to ram into the center of his torso. He shook a little and by now he moaned a bit louder, but it all stopped when I pulled the knife back out.
I let him fall to the ground - he landed on his back with his arms spread to both sides. I pulled his shirt all the way up. No chest hairs, nothing around the nipples, my last stab was slowly but directly into his heart. I heart him moan and the last thing coming from Jackson was a silent breath as his head turned to the left.
Carefully I put my ear to his bare chest. No heart beat, no breathing sounds - just warm, soft skin against my ear. I kind of fell sorry for the kid, so I gently stroke him down his stomach as if to assure him, that he wasn't alone when he died... Ironic, I know - but who says assasins can't have a conscience.
His skin was soft and warm - a big difference to my own hands, who were rough and worn after 20 years of hard work.
I left the building, got my money and drove out of town.
New targets waiting, more money to be earned...
-------
This was my first try at writing a story.
I shall be the first to inform you, that english is not my first language, so any mistakes or wrong grammar is simply due to the fact, that I'm Danish.
I hope you enjoy this little story from my twisted imagination ;-)
Thanks for reading, and have a good one.
Have more conscience this time and don't kill after two stabs in the navel