You're saying they kidnapped you and made you who you are today?
got to be honest, I said
to Roberto, that isn't the whole story.
Men at the bar gave me probably the easiest choice of my life: I could keep wandering around, mainlining stolen booze from shitty dive bars and picking fights until I get my face kicked in, or make a quick ten grand.
Eh, am I kidding? They probably wouldn't have let me go out the door alive anyways; I had no choice. Luckily, I was perfectly fine with sacrificing any sense of morality or patriotism I might've had to make a quick buck, so the only question I had left was how the fuck I was going to make my way to Las Vegas and rub out some guy named Claude.
It was the sort of moral dilemma I craved when I wanted to be a sniper I didn't know who this guy was, didn't know his story or whether he deserved a bullet in the brain. All I had was a name, a target surely, it wasn't my job to decide whether this guy should live or die. If it wasn't me pulling the trigger, it would be someone else so I might as well be the one to get paid, right?
I didn't ask for whom I was working; it didn't really matter. I needed money, they needed a job done. It was the perfect relationship of convenience. I just crossed the border and went to work.
They fronted me fifteen hundred US dollars for incidentals a weapon, some ammo, and some clothes. After all, it would've been kinda tough to get into a Las Vegas casino wearing jeans and a t-shirt and not draw some notice, right? The last thing I wanted was attention.
My weapon of choice was a Glock 9mm pistol; I caught a bus into Sin City and started scoping out my target. I had some intel on the victim he liked to play the 20k no limit game at the Rio every weekend. I didn't know when he'd be there, so I loitered around the poker room virtually the entire weekend, placing a few small wagers and having a few drinks. Then, the target finally showed up.
He was a tall man who wore a Hawaiian shirt and gaudy jewelry. Yeah, I know, that sounds like every douchebag in that city, but it was pretty obvious given the picture I was given that I had the correct target.
I'm not going to sugarcoat or glorify what happened here; I followed him back to his room and put a bullet in the back of his head. Then, I made my way back to an address they gave me, and-
Roberto frowned, how
long did you have to hang around and not look suspicious? How did you
avoid the hotel security?
...Good eye. I was testing you.
I won't lie, he was a pretty cool guy. Wife, two kids, lots of cash I might've even liked him if I didn't have to put a bullet in his brain. I sat down next to him at the table and we chatted for a few hours before he invited me out to a club after we were done.
The two of us were swinging dicking it up, hanging out in the VIP and buying chicks drinks. At this point, though, I started to get some twinges of guilt.
You can't get guilty, man. They're just a target. Victor... Victor is just a target. You've got to stay frosty.
How can you sit next to a guy you're supposed to kill and not let it bother you?
I... I don't know how to describe it, you just...
Needless to say, it ended up being a long night. A hooker here, a few lines of coke there... I don't really remember all the details. The important shit was that by the end of the night, Claude was face down in a pool of his own vomit. Really, if you think about it, it was his own dumb fucking fault for spending his last night with a guy strapped with a Glock and a whole shit-ton of bad intentions.
I had always dreamed about the perfect murder surely, this wasn't it, but I fantasized about how to get rid of the weapon, abut how to make sure I was never found. I had a bit of a sick sense of satisfaction when I actually got to do it.
Step One: Completely dismantle the weapon
Step Two: Take any pieces you haven't touched and handle carefully! Drive down the highway and drop one piece every twenty miles or so.
I started driving in the desert towards Los Angeles, where I was supposed to meet my liaison
Step Three: Deposit any pieces you might've touched into a big fucking body of water preferably one with plenty of corrosive salt.
A chartered deep sea fishing trip would do the trick.
Step Four: Burn clothes, change appearance, get the fuck out of dodge.
That was the last time I would ever have hair.
And that's how I got this tattoo, I smirked, pointing to my forearm.
I was given an address in the middle of suburbia; I waited for the package to arrive, and when it did, I grabbed it off the step and drove back to the city. A stack of Andrew Jacksons was sewn inside a teddy bear, along with a pager. Then I waited.