I lure you to an apartment in the wrong part of town by claiming to have dirt on a prominent gangster, the man who just happens to be my boss. He knows you've already started gathering information on him for a newspaper article, an article that could ruin him if published, and so I've been told to get rid of you.
You turn up in what classes for a conservative outfit these days. Just a sliver of midriff is exposed and you're wearing stockings that rise to just below your short skirt, each step shows off a ring of creamy flesh. I'm clad in only tight shorts, I notice your eyes widen upon seeing me, and there's a delightful quiver in your stride as you enter my temporary home.
I offer a seat on the worn sofa, you keep your knees together like a good girl, and take out a notepad and pen, waiting for me to speak. I've moved over to the small kitchenette on the other side of the room meanwhile, reached into a container. With my back to you I check the pistol I've retrieved, make sure there's enough bullets, before spinning.
I know you see the pistol, can see you focus on it as you shrink back into the sofa. The notepad slips from suddenly-nerveless fingers and hits the threadbare carpet just before my first bullet ploughs into your chest, flecks of blood stain the paper. You lift a hand to the wound, emotions chase each other across your face, and you jerk as a second bullet thuds into you. There's a banging on the wall, the neighbour shouts for quiet, and I pause for a brief moment before swaggering forward to be right in front of you.
Blood is dribbling from between your lips, I must have hit a lung, and I see you go almost cross-eyed as I level the pistol at your forehead. You see a bright flash and then nothing, all thoughts wiped from your mind as I fire. I watch your head snap back, crimson trickling from your new third eye. None of these wounds will lower your street value, might improve it in the right circles, and I put aside the pistol before grabbing for my phone.
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