A Job

My name is Mishca Karnovich. Most folks call me M.

M for Maniac
M for Messenger
M for Murderer

and a few other M related names I don't care to repeat in the company of decent living folks.

I talk to myself. Tends to be that my voice is the only one that makes sense most of the time. I talk to myself and I tend to listen to my advice without reservation.

Everybody wants something. And the job that landed in my lap wants to pay back the sons of whores who killed her God-fearing pappy and passed Susie Swiss Miss round like a pornstar in some cheap gangbang flick.

Revenge is my favourite kind of job. The client pays well and usually wants a front row seat to the mayhem. Hell some of 'em are so choked up on hatred and hurt that they want to personally get involved. Either way suits me fine.

I ignore the bruising and stiches on her face. It's nothing I haven't seen before. Her legs look like tenderized steak but her hands are strong enough to hold the binoculars I've given her. Like I said, front row seat.

Bunch of dead-head bikers heading south out of Jersey, following the coastline and pissing on every small town and dead end bar they roar up into. Not hard to track them down at all. They hit the bar early, so I give 'em plenty of time to kill their braincells.

The client doesn't say much, doesn't have to. She recognizes them. The tears rolling down her cheeks tell me. The sun dips down behind the horizon, my cue to start moving.

Local's are wisely staying away tonight. A dozen choopers usually have that effect. Customized choppers don't make particularly big explosions. The fuel tanks aren't big enough for that. But it will gain their attention. Quickly and quietly I make my way down the forrested hill from where I've hidden the pickup truck on across the road from the bar.

There's plenty of hooting and hollering coming from the bar, and crashing and cursing. Stupid bastards. I rig each tank with a small shaped charge and turn the small receivers on. My client wants the honor of trashing the choppers. I get to play JFK Reloaded on the bikers with my trusty Dragunov.

I make my way back to the pick-up truck and give the client the small detonator. She knows I'll break her teeth with the butt of my rifle if she prematurely hits the bright red button. I take my time setting up the Dragunov. Hello my old friend, it's time to sing for me again.

I won't need the scope tonight. I can see clear across to the bar entrance and the parked bikes. I slip in the extended magazine and chamber the first round. I look back at my client. One hand is holding the binoculars, the other balances the detonator.
"Fire it up, sweetheart."

I'm staring down the sights and adjusting for windage as the bikes start exploding like a row of flaming dominos. Twisted metal and burning rubber. It's beautiful. I concentrate on the door as it swings open and leather clad numbskulls sprawl out onto the dust. The expressions on their faces are priceless. My client thinks so to. I hear her softly laughing, or is that sobbing?

The second and third round are already racing towards their respective targets as the front of the first man's head explodes like a ripe melon. He drops to the ground and flops around, still clutching at his bottle of Jack Daniels.

Two and three go the way of the first. And I'm just getting started. The others may be drunk and loaded, but it's dawning on them. Pistols and shotguns are drawn and they start shooting blindly into the night. One idiot shoots himself in the foot and groans. I really give him something to groan about when I shoot him between the legs.

Start running, you dumb bastards. This is too easy. I'm playing now, as much for my client's benefit as my own enjoyment. I shiver in pleasure. I shoot to maim now, legs, arms and lower torso. I have to load a second magazine to keep pace with the swiss cheesing I'm making of them. But I'm getting paid for kills so I squeeze away that tingly feeling between my legs and get back to the killing end of the bargain. It's all over in less than five minutes.

The barman comes out with a shotgun and I almost pop him right then and there. Till he drops the shotgun and doubles over, emptying out the contents of his stomach. I smile. Not a bad night's work.
I reluctantly remove the cartridge and unchamber the round. I pick up the warm spent cartridges and shove them inside my jacket pocket. The Dragunov goes reluctantly back into it's case.

My client is still staring through the binoculars as I gently take the detonator from her hands. She may as well enjoy the view a little longer. She only lowers the binoculars when I open the drivers side door of the pick-up truck and slide in.

"
Was it good for you?" I ask casually as I start the engine.

"
I think I'm going to be sick." she replies weakly.

I glare at her with a stare that could freeze water. "No, you're not."

She shivers and slowly withers under my gaze. "I won't."

"At least not until we've had something to eat."

She looks at me in disbelief.


I shrug and slowly back the vehicle up. "A girl's gotta eat sometime, sweetheart. A girl's gotta eat."

Mischa Karnovich 17 years ago
Three hours later and the pickup truck is a small box of compressed metal in a junkyard in Jersey. My client has been given a 60 minute Extreme Makeover, complete with falsified papers, identification and a ride on the Underground down to Florida. You get what you paid for, and my client paid for the works.

Me. I pick up a refitted SUV from a R'asa operated chopshop. Everything of mine is nice and neatly packed away in the back. I don't stinge on paying my compliments to my kin. Thirty grand will enable them to purchase more equipment and tools. Just my little contriubtion to one of our illicit thriving little industries.

I'm playing transporter on this run. Usually I don't do courier jobs. But this one is priority and I'm heading in the right direction. I don't ask and they won't tell me what I'm delivering. Easier that way.

Watch the wall my darling, while the gentlemen pass by...

Package is for one of the kin down in Nachton. And it has to be personally delivered. Maybe I'll stick around in Nachton. I hear there's things happening in this place, and I could use a change of scenery.