A Hitmans Recount - Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap

The 4DC - A hitman's mantra of Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap - It's a Fun, Fun time!

Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap

A Hitmans Recount

I wouldn’t say murder per se was a terrible thing.

I mean, it all depends on the motive, doesn’t it?

And if we’re being honest, the recipient plays a part in it, too!

For example, the people who tried to murder Hitler. We don’t sit back and judge them with negative condemnation. We all went, darn it! Close but not quite over the line. Try a bit harder next time.

Honestly, you can be the nicest person who’s kind, donates to charities and looks after stray puppies. Then, one day, you’re simply pushed over the line of what you will and won’t put up with by someone who’s the total opposite of you.

It’s like something snaps, and once it’s broken, there’s no going back.

People then think… darn, and dash it all… murder is on the books today!

Well… that’s where I come in.

I’m not ashamed of what I do. I fulfil a need—a desire—a social void.

I do have standards!

I won’t do anything to anyone who doesn’t deserve it! I mean, don’t bother phoning me up and asking me to bump your Nana off cause, in her will, she’s signed over her remaining five grand to your cousin Tony who’s a real pric..tacing account but knows exactly how to suck up to ya Nannie!

Suck it up, buttercup; my fee’s much higher than 5k, and you don’t… you REALLY DON’T won’t owe me money.

But every now and again, I get a request which… how can I say it…

It grabs my attention.

 It tickles my sense of humour.

And I then put in place the 4DC clause.

Dirty Deeds Done Dirty Cheap!

And when that li’l beauty comes out. It’s a fun, fun, fun time.

Now, I never expected Mrs Morris. She’s a sweet white-haired octogenarian with a little ginger cat called Mr Claws. I would never have predicted that she would ever contact me, ask for my services, and be more than willing to pay my exorbitant fees.  But for her… for her needs, the 4DC clause was instigated the moment I entered her lounge room.

Now in her heyday, Mrs Morris had been something of a party girl. In the 1920s, according to this little lady, she partied harder than most and lived to brag about it. And how do I say this politely?

Ah!

I know!

She was very talented in certain areas!

No, not those areas! (Please, she’s a lady!)

According to Mrs Morris, she had a talent for breaking into people’s houses and acquiring their paintings when they were out at one party or another.

She considered herself a collector of fine art: other people’s fine art, but a collector non the less.

And through manipulating her social calendar, she’d amassed quite the collection over the years, which she’d been selling off ever so slowly, mainly through dark auction houses.

I mean, really! How can you not be hooked by this ballsy ol’ babe?

I know I was; Mrs Morris could have asked me to bump off the Easter Bunny, and I would have done it with a great big smile whilst helping myself to his basket of goodies.

But no, the bunny wasn’t her target. She simply wanted the person who had broken into her house and destroyed her collection. Her retirement fund, as she called it. The fool who’d defiled her life's work in one fell swoop to be, as she put it, inconvenienced in a very big and permanent way.

The thing which also hooked me was the destruction of her art collection. I mean, why? Why not steal it all and sell it on? Sit back, enjoy the bucks and watch the wealthy old Mrs Morris be helpless and unable to do anything about it. What fun!

Cause defacing her art simply meant she had to take a considerable risk in restoring each painting before selling it. But in the end, she could still sell it and make money off it. So why?

Well, I guessed that was their plan. Maybe, they were the kind of freaky dudes who got off on seeing people pissed off. You know, the kind that leaves the toilet seat up and takes the globe out from the light, so you’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of going for a butt dunk. Yeah, that kinda cretin.

I don’t think they thought it through, though. Cause this ol’ bird was pissed off in a major way. Not yelling, screaming and kicking the cat kind of way. Nah, she reached out to her contacts who had my number and called me one Saturday afternoon as Mr Claws slept balled up on her lap.

“A very dear friend of mine has given me your name. I do apologise for ringing without any introduction beforehand, but Henry said you might enjoy the challenge.”

“Go on…”  I’m meticulously cautious about what I say on the phone; you never ever know who’s listening.

Anyway, she went into great detail, invited me to see her graffiti art, and we made the deal in person. Simple. Easy!

All twenty-seven pictures had a massive stencilled thunderbolt spray painted over each one.

I asked her, “Why the thunderbolt?”

She sighed because, in her heyday, she’d been as quick as lightning, in and out in under 10 minutes.

“So, they know you then.”

Her fine silver eyebrow raised itself. “There is only a small circle of people who know me by that name, and… they’re all dead!”

She threw her hands up in the air, stumped at the possibilities. “It’s literally a dead end!”

Poor, sweet old Mrs Morris.

People think hunting human beings is complex. It’s not. Generally, humans think they’re smart, but really, they’re as thick as bricks. Sniff hard enough, watch close enough and dangle the right bait, and you catch whomever you want.

Think about it. Only a small circle knew Mrs Morris’ nickname. Only a small circle knew her past. And within that dead circle… someone had opened their big mouth to another person who was young and dumb enough to take on this ballsy ol’ dame.

It took me a day on social media trawling through the family members of Mrs Morris’s old friends when I came across Toby, an up-and-coming artist. A revolutionary. A social commentator… Well, a young idiot with a big mouth and enough money to buy spray paint to express himself with. The last photo on his Instagram threw me over the line of harbouring doubt.

There was Toby with poor Mr Claws being dangled out of one of Mrs Morris’s windows. His little mouth gaping, matching his wide and terrified eyes.

I like cats!

Toby needed to go bye-bye!

Now, I have been doing this job for quite some time.

I’ve had a few followers, and few have tried to end my career. And more than a few have regretted trying to do so!

Now we come back to the recipient of my attention. Toby.

Murder was too good for him.

When one of my associates… (He likes to be called that, but he’s only 15 and a computer hacker who could ruin my credit quite quickly, so as far as I’m concerned, he can be called Mr President as long as he keeps his fingers off my digits.) found some interesting photos.

Apparently, Toby has a really big thing for hurting little fury animals and taking pictures of himself doing it. In fact, he’s got quite a collection of photos.

Great guy and… fabulous human. …Not!

Well, I was ready to start measuring him up for a pair of cat-shaped concrete boots when my associate sent me a warning text with an accompanying humorous gif.

Mr Toby was just my kind of bait.

I was being hunted.

Someone had gotten wind of me.

Sniffed me out.

Watched me closely.

Dangled the bait, and I had nearly, oh so nearly, taken it—hook, line and sinker.

I had to congratulate them. They’d planned it well. Sadly, Mrs Morris had paid the price. Poor Mr Claws had also paid the price, which was unacceptable. I was thrown over my line!

Toby was feeling powerful. And a fool in power mode is a dangerous thing. But honestly, he was nothing more than a meat puppet. And I wanted to know who the puppeteer was.

It took my associate five minutes.

The youth of today are scary, scary people! Love ‘em to pieces!

When you’re setting someone up to set up a long-term assassin, don’t take a selfie with them with your CIA badge showing.

So, here we are.

Poor Mrs Morris’s collection thoughtlessly and unnecessarily destroyed.

Toby, who now can’t go outside without being assaulted by PETA fans and lovers of pussy cats, all because someone hacked into his accounts and sent his ‘animal photo collection’ to every media outlet worldwide. Apparently, his artwork is being scrubbed out of existence.

Mr Claws, well, he’s recovering from his maltreatment and enjoying a delivery care package of fresh hand-caught deep-sea tuna every other month.

My associate is begging me to teach him how to drive even though he’s too young. Frankly, I’m in no position to say no since he redirected the interest off a particular government department’s investment funds to a lovely little white-haired old lady down on her luck.

They should have known better than to send their little badged monkeys after me!

And that leaves me, who’s now busy spending my Monday night dealing with the leftovers of my occupation.

So, pick up the phone; I’m always home.

Call me any time.

Just ring 3624 368; I’m not that hard to find.

Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap!

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