 My line of work can be controversial, to say the least. There are many misconceptions about hitmen or assassins. Some people think you can order one on the deep web, and others think that only elite organizations have access to people like me. However, in actuality, it's just about knowing the right people, well, that in having access to a pretty hefty wallet. I've been hired to take out businessmen, politicians, and even cheating spouses. You see, when you live in a world like mine, sometimes the only thing that stays the same is your moral code. I've been approached by clients in the past who've wanted the competition removed from their political campaign, and once I even had someone try to hire me so I could take out their elementary school bully. I've always rejected offers like these. Sliding a knife into the jugular of a father can be hard. But knowing that the father had done something truly evil. That makes it a little easier. So when I stood over the corpse of an ice cream man who'd been accused of eating children, I should have held no remorse, but something felt wrong. I take my contract seriously, and I only take the ones I feel passionately about. About a week earlier, I was approached by a man who said he needed a job done. We met at a local dive bar where he handed me a plain folder. I opened it and took a look at the documents inside. There were several pieces of paper explaining the situation and the person he wanted taken out. Along with the papers were several large printed photos. I leaned into the back corner of the booth I was sitting at to ensure that no one else could see the gruesome images I held in my hands. After looking over them, I made eye contact with a man sitting across from me. What the hell is this? Why don't you turn the scumbag into the police? I said and threw the papers on the table. He looked at me and then pointed at one of the photos. That one's mine. He spoke softly and I could hear the pain in his voice. He then stood up, reached out for my hand and said, I hope you'll accept my contract. The best I can do is 50,000. I'll give you 25 tomorrow if you accept and 25 when the deed is done. I did what the police couldn't do. I found him. Now all you have to do is put a bullet in his head. If you don't feel up to it, I understand. The photo he pointed at was enough to send chills down my spine and that's saying a lot. It was taken in what looked like a back alley. It was shot directly over a body. The body of a child, a young boy, bloodied and mangled. He couldn't have been more than 12. Giant bite marks were taken out of the boy's torso, left thigh and face. This wasn't unlike the other photos the man had handed me. They were ultimately all the same. A child typically between the ages of seven and 13 mangled in an alley covered in bite marks. Some were girls, some were boys. It didn't matter. I knew I had to accept this contract. I didn't care about the money. It was enough to know that this sick son of a bitch behind the killings was taken care of. I'd do it for free, I said. But unfortunately, this is a costly business. Nonetheless, I accept. I stood up and met the man's handshake. He nodded and turned for the door of the bar. I watched him exit and then went back to my seat. I analyzed the documents for several more moments before downing my drink and eventually making my way for the door as well. Initially, I was opposed to the contract. After all, I'm a hired killer, not a vigilante. But my job was taking a toll on my conscience. And I figured that avenging the man's son would help my mental state. Obviously, I didn't do it just for myself. I'm a man who once wanted a family too. And in that sense, I could empathize for the man. Although I'd never experienced a loss like that, I couldn't even imagine the pain he must have gone through. Plus, he'd done all the detective work himself. I just had to whack the son of a bitch. Fast forward a week, the man wired me the 25,000. And I got geared up, scouted the target, and eventually I went in for the kill. I sneaked him through an unlocked window and found myself in the bedroom of an elderly man. I walked over to the side of his bed and raised the aluminum baseball bat I held in my hands over his head. I brought it down with a swift crack. Just like that, he was dead. His face was caved in where I'd struck him, blood gargled out of his eyes, nose, and mouth. In this moment, I found myself remembering the photos the man had given me. It relieved my conscience ever so slightly. There's something so pathetic about an elderly man bleeding from his face that makes even the best reasoning seem questionable. I wiped the blood off my brow and stepped away from the bed, struggling to feel good about the deed I'd done. I turned away and put the baseball bat into the duffel bag I carried over my back. This prevented the blood from dripping off the bat, ultimately covering my tracks. By the way, if you're wondering why I was using a baseball bat, it's because it's a lot harder to trace back to you than a gun, knife, or even poison. Blunt objects are the way to go if your job relies on you not getting caught. My eyes began to adjust to the dark as I stood in the man's bedroom for longer. I glanced around and noticed several things. First of all, the man was sleeping alone in a double bed which meant his wife was about to walk in on her husband's corpse and his killer, or the man's wife had passed away leaving him broken and alone. My question was answered soon thereafter when I noticed a large black and gold urn located atop the man's dresser. I felt sorry for him, of course, but I assumed that her death was the final straw before he mentally broke. Then a photo on the wall next to the window I'd come in through caught my eye. It was a photo of the man above with his arms around a young woman and a slightly older, but still young man. They were clearly the man's children. Remember when I said that knowing a father had done something truly terrible makes it easier to kill him? Well, if you find out afterwards that he wasn't doing something terrible, it makes the whole thing much more traumatic. I was confused because I knew this was the target. I'd seen him get in and out of the ice cream truck he drove during the summer months. Everything lined up except for the man's decor. I typically make my killings as quick as possible, but not this time. I needed to know if this was truly the man behind those despicable murders. His hallway was lined with more family photos, some with and some without his late wife. His place was clean and had that iconic old person scent. I mean there were some dirty dishes in the kitchen and an unfolded blanket in the living room draped over a large brown recliner, but nothing out of the ordinary. I looked all over for a basement or attic which he might have used to store the bodies of young children. However, instead, I was met with a crucifix over the mantle in a DVD collection which contained nothing over PG-13. After my analysis of the old man's home, I swiftly exited the way I came, murmuring a small apology before I left out the window. My head hung low the entire drive home, I knew I'd made a mistake and planned on contacting the man who hired me the next morning. Things didn't line up. The man who hired me couldn't have been bullshitting me, I saw the pain in his eyes. Yet, the man who I just murdered clearly wasn't the one behind the brutal killings of half a dozen children. I pondered what to do next and ultimately I decided that this was the last job I could ever take. I'd spilled the blood of an innocent man, my moral code had been broken. I could no longer in good conscience continue to kill for money. I did in fact contact the man the next morning. He was clearly disturbed by the news I brought to his attention and offered to pay me in full despite the job going south, but I had to refuse. I even wired him the 25,000 he'd originally sent my way. I was still sitting comfortably, but had to start looking for a new job. Surprisingly it's hard to find a new job when your entire resume is based on taking lives. I kept looking, but struggled to find anything. About a month ago, I had to move out of my house and into a studio apartment. I still had enough money to stay safe, but the rent in my old place was too much to continue living there. Last night since that last job include me drinking myself to death and trying to figure out who was really behind those murders. Yesterday, I took a drive past the old man's house. I do it every so often hoping that I'd see the old bastard out in the front yard mowing the lawn or even see him in the large recliner through the window. However, instead, I discovered that a new family had moved in. The kids were in the front yard bundled in their winter clothes rolling large snowballs for the base of what I assumed to be a snowman. As I drove by the house, an ice cream truck passed me going the opposite direction. I looked in the rear view mirror and watched as it pulled up in the front of the yard where the kids were playing. Who drove an ice cream truck in mid-February? However, that's not what caused my heart to feel like it had stopped pumping. I saw the driver of the truck. It was the old man who I last saw bleeding from every orifice on his face. I pulled into the nearest driveway, reversed, and made the fastest three-point turn in recorded history. As I approached the house, I watched in terror as an unseen force reached its long arms out and dragged the small girl through the large window on the side of the truck. The boy scrambled backwards and then bolted for the house. I was a ways away, but I could still hear the screams. I don't know if they were the boys or girls. I took off after the ice cream truck. I followed it for about 10 minutes before the suburbs began to turn into the inner city. Without turning on his blinker, he took a sharp right turn into an alley I hadn't even noticed. I continued going straight and then pulled off to the side of the road. My hands shook violently with adrenaline. I hadn't felt a rush like this in years. I threw open the car door and half jogged, half walked to the mouth of the alley. I had to hold myself back from running straight into it. Boy, was I glad I did. I peeked around the corner of the alley and found myself face to face with the most disturbing creature I'd ever laid my eyes on. It was easily eight feet tall. It had leathery dark brown skin, at least 15 beady black eyes, no nose, needle like spines up and down its back and a mouth that could fit a full grown man. It was hunched over the body of the young girl. Her pink coat and beanie were splashed with red. Its head full of eyes tilted up and look straight at me. Its jaw unhinged as the bottom mandible split in half. There was a bright flash and suddenly I was no longer face to face with a hellish beast. Instead, I found myself looking into the eyes of a young girl wearing a pink winter coat and a beanie with one of those little poofs on the top. You found me. The girl said softly as she formed a smile, a smile with teeth that resembled knives rather than nose of a human. I pulled my head back behind the wall and after a few seconds I took another peek. The girl was still there, now hunched over her body tearing flesh and blood out of her own small corpse. She paused her feast and looked up at me yet again. An intestine hung out of her mouth and she sucked it up in the same way a person might eat a spaghetti noodle. I took cover behind the wall again but this time I didn't look back in the alley. Instead, I went back to my car and drove back to my apartment. I haven't been able to get the creature out of my head since then. I decided I'd share my story before turning myself in. I don't want to live as a free man anymore, partially because I know I deserve to go to prison but mostly because I no longer want to walk the same streets as that monster.