Murder

           This was to be much harder than I’d imagined. How was I to kill, without being killed. It would be tricky, yes. To slip in there undetected, slit his throat or shoot him and beat my retreat hastily. I had never met the man. Had never seen him. Had no real hate or animosity towards him. Hell, he could even be a nice guy. I would never find out for I killed him that very night.

            I bought the trailer for next to nothing. It was such a bargain. Living on my menial income, I could not pass it up. Thomas, who worked with me at the little factory doing our little tasks making our little wages, said they were not trailers for they hauled nothing. They were mobile homes. I disagreed inside and unto myself only for my little trailer hauled me through many a lonely fog-drenched night.

            The fog. How deep it seemed to peer through. How searchingly eager my little car’s headlights sought, going to and from, my little job. I hated the fucking job. I hated Thomas. I hated……..hate.

            I grew up on the Island. It doesn’t matter where for an island is an island whether it is made up of rock and sand and brush or whether it is made up in your mind. In the dank dark basement that you never clean and never show anyone. Musty, dusty, and rusty.

            My little black and white TV blinked through the night. As I said, I held no malice and knew him not. But a job to do I had and a job to do I did. No payment was to be received other than the satisfaction of a job well…….well done.

            Do it, the job, then my clean clean Getaway. No McQueen or McGraw or Kim or a Baldwin brother but my own clean clean Getaway.

            The Island reeked this time of year of body odor, fish, beer, cigarette smoke and vomit. I do not like vomit.

            I do like popsicles. The sun. A gentle breeze on a cool, non humid, summer’s night. I like dogs. Never had one. Dad, that man, said they stank. Dad, that man, was vomit.

            My little propane tank heated my little trailer on the nights after my little job. My little car took me home that night through the fog and the smell of vomit. I killed him there by the propane tank. This man I’d never met.

           The muzzle was cold.