Smith could hardly contain himself as he picked up his pace. How much better could this week have gone, he thought as he walked back to the hotel. The adrenaline still coursed through is veins from the kill. Though he continually forced his mind to focus on his new assignment, he constantly flashed back to the image of the slit neck of the prostitute. The expression on her face was priceless, he thought. He could feel the heft of the knife in his pocket, and smiled.
“Time is money, honey.” He said sarcastically, and laughed. Yes it is, he thought. Yes it is. He came to crosswalk at the hotel, and patiently waited with the others for the crosswalk sign to change. Another assignment so quickly was a good thing for him. Not just for the money. He loved money. But it wasn’t about the money. It was about the craft. The art. After all, that’s what he was, wasn’t he? An artist. A creative soul with a well honed skill. The light changed, and he moved ahead with the crowd. Yes. He was like a painter of old. A DaVinci. A Rembrandt. But his medium was not that of ordinary paints and canvas. No, not at all. In a way, he mused, he was probably more like a sculptor. Some artists created in two dimensions, and some created in three. Yes, he was more like a sculptor. The lady next to him bumped his arm.
“Get the fuck away from me, bitch.” He said nonchalantly, the smile still on his face. She glanced up at him harshly and quickly moved away. Yes a sculptor. Some used stone, or marble, or even wood. But not him. No, nothing so mundane and inert as rock or wood for him. He used flesh. The more he thought of his craft in this light, the more he began to realize that he actually created his masterpieces in four dimensions, instead of just three. A simple painting had two dimensions. Length and width. A sculpture had the third dimension of depth. But his artwork had something else. A fourth dimension of time. His subjects were alive, and then they were dead. All in the passage of a few moments in time.
He stepped into the hotel lobby, and headed for the exit on the opposite side where the loading and unloading area was located. The bellman nodded at him, but he ignored him. He was lost in his thoughts. Maybe, he thought, he created in even more than four dimensions. In a way, his pieces transcended the simple mortal concept of dimensions. They rivaled those of a God. As he took the life of each of his subjects, he submitted their immortal souls to the powers that be, for their ultimate judgment. By including them in his creations, he personally delivered them unto their final damnation. Or reward, as the case may be, dependent upon their life’s works, their beliefs and the accuracy such beliefs. In essence, he realized, he acted as the hand of God, or Gods as the case may be, as he brought their lives to an end. It intrigued him, this thought of a fifth dimension that expressed itself within his work.
He stepped out of the lobby and approached the taxi stand. He stood quietly behind the woman that he had yelled at only moments ago. She was unaware he was behind her. The next taxi pulled into place and she got in, and it sped off. He stepped up. The next garishly yellow taxi pulled up. He got in.
“Where to, mister?” The dark skinned man said in heavily accented English. He looked at Smith through the rearview mirror. His turban was wrapped tightly around his head.
“You know of a Pappa Louigi’s?”
“Yes. I do, sir.” He said nodding and smiling.
“Take me there.” The driver pulled out into the traffic, and Smith sat back in the seat. He folded his gloved hands on his lap, as he continued to ponder this newly realized concept of a fifth dimension in his work. The photo had always been a proof on completion in his craft. But now he tried to remember when he had began to so carefully pose his victims. Try as he might, he could not place a certain time in the past. It had become so second nature, that he had begun to do so on every assignment. Could it be that this too had been guided by some unforeseen force, he wondered. Then his mind drifted back to the hooker. He had not taken a picture of her. As a matter of fact, he never took pictures of any of the subjects he chose to eliminate just for fun. And he definitely had not taken any pictures of that bitch whore sister of his. Or his fucking dirt bag mother, or his shit for brains useless father. The mother loving son-of-a-bitch.
No. The photos must have begun as part of the verification process, but try as he might, he could not pinpoint when they began. He watched out of the window as the city roared past. The cab driver had twice spoken to him, yet he sat there in silence. He had no use for conversation with this piece of Arab shit, and refused to acknowledge his existence. If he continued to interrupt his thoughts, he may just end his miserable life tonight. The taxi turned onto the expressway, and as the car picked up speed, the cabby was silent. Smith’s thoughts turned back to the concept of divine intervention. Could it be, he asked himself. Could it be that he was a pawn in the whole vast scheme of things? If so, that would mean that all of his actions his whole life might have been at the beck and call of some supreme being, or beings, and that they directed his actions.
“Bullshit.” He said under his breath. There had not been any supreme being there to keep his father from raping him instead of his whore of a sister. If she had just spread her diseased legs for the son-of-a-bitch, he would have been left alone. Or that bitch whore of a mother who knew all about it and didn’t say a fucking word. He wished he could kill her again, the fucking bitch whore. The image of his knife as it slashed her throat passed through his mind. His smile had faded. His pride of the recent jobs well done had evaporated. The elation of the slashed throat of the whore in the alley was gone. The excitement of the new assignment was gone. The taxi began to slow as it exited the expressway, and he turned to look at the driver. Maybe he would kill this fucking sand rat bastard. Maybe he would cut his head off, like the video he had seen on the internet. He could imagine the turbaned man as his screams became guttural and wet, as his throat filled with blood. He could imagine how his knife would feel as he sliced in between the vertebrae as he severed the fucker’s head. His smile returned.
The car stopped at the stop light, and Smith reached into his pocket for his knife. The driver stared ahead, and did not even glance into the rearview mirror. Evidently he had decided that conversation was useless. Smith’s hand curled around the switchblade, and it felt good. It made him feel strong. It’s cool steel, and pearl embossed handle felt at home in his gloved hand. He eased it from his pocket, just as the light changed. The taxi driver accelerated through the light, oblivious to the danger that sat in the rear of his cab. Smith thumbed the catch on the handle, and the blade snicked out to its full ten inch length. The street lights pulsed off its shiny blade as the car sped on. He leaned forward slightly, and suddenly the car began to slow.
“We’re here.” The driver said, as he pulled into the parking lot of Pappa Louigi’s. The taxi came to a stop and the driver glanced at the meter. “Twenty-five fifty.” Smith placed his left hand on the back of the driver’s seat and pulled himself forward. In a flash, he reached forward with his right hand. The driver was startled by the quickness of the move, and jumped back towards his door. Then a smile spread across his face, as he reached out and took the two twenties from Smith. Smith told him to keep the change. No time for this, he thought as he exited the taxi. He had an assignment to complete.
Chapter 29
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