I get hired for one simple job. I might not be the best in my field, but I’m good enough. I hunt. I track. I kill.
Today’s target is no different from the dozens I’ve already neutralized. The irony is, these victims haven’t actually done anything wrong. They want the same things we all do. Food, shelter, sex. They just want to live. I get it. But when them “living” affects someone more powerful, I get called in. It’s murder for hire.
It used to bother me. On my own time—in my youth—I’d rant about the unfairness of it all. Then I’d shut up when another job came because, hey, we all gotta eat, right?
I’ve spotted my target. They don’t notice me. One of my most in-demand skills is my ability to move without making any noise. Despite that, some sort of sixth sense alerts some victims that death is near. This one flinches, eyes darting, nose twitching. My footpads leave the couch as I pounce. Their warning came too late. A skinny pink tail follows a small brown body down my throat.
Or is it supper?
We all gotta eat, right?