For Years I Was A Hitman Called ‘The Aneurysm’ And I’m Ready To Tell You Why I Finally Retired

creepy catalog hitman

Stark hotel room. Reidsville, Georgia. I pulled the drawer next to my bed open to take comfort in the Bible I knew that would be in there. God Bless The South for keeping things the way they should be. I never needed to read The Good Book more than at that moment.

Phil had escaped and he knew exactly who I was. Did he know where I was? That I didn’t know yet. I figured the rat shit motel room at the edge of town would be a decent place to hideout until my brain started convincing me that the lodge was right out of central casting for the place someone hiding from someone would duck into and I started to panic.

I didn’t necessarily believe those words I read on the faded print of the paper of The Bible. Words are just words to me, they can mean whatever they want to anyone, but the words I read on that night did their job, taking me back to my childhood bed where my mom read me scripture every night before I went to bed.

They called me The Aneurysm. I brought sudden, unexpected death, but with the caveat that I only brought it to those that deserved it. I was essentially a death row fixer. An undercover prisoner. The right people in the prison industrial complex got a hold of me when they had a prisoner they felt should have gotten the death penalty, but didn’t receive it, or someone they particularly wanted to do away with who was going to be under the protection of appeals for years.

About the author

Jack Follman

Jack has written professionally as a journalist, fiction writer, and ghost writer. For more information, visit his website.

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