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

“No. No. No,” I barked at Phil.

The girl locked eyes with me. She already looked roughed up a bit. She gave me a look that was equal parts “help,” and equal parts “please don’t kill me.” I understood the mix of emotions, I’m not exactly the most warm and fuzzy-looking guy. She probably figured I was in it with Phil.

I looked away from the girl and saw a small metal baseball gripped in Phil’s hand and then spotted the bulge of a handgun in the pocket of his filthy Wranglers.

“Ah fuck no Phil. You can just shoot me now, because I’m not doing any shit like this,” I yelled as loud as I could, hoping someone might hear us through the woods.

“What shit? Doing what shit?” The girl screamed out even louder than I did.

Phil threw the girl at my feet and ripped the gun out of his pocket – pointed it right at my face.

“You know, this isn’t the first time someone has pointed a gun at my face,” I said, hoping my defiance could shake Phil’s confidence.

Phil smacked the gun up against my teeth. I felt my entire skull vibrate, felt a few teeth crack.

“What’s torturing and killing a fucking warden’s daughter gonna do Phil?” I asked with a bleeding mouth. “You should just get your ass to Guatemala. I’ll help you.”

I heard a familiar sound. The distant whine of an outboard motor. A small one. The kind that pilots small little fishing boats you can only fit one or two people on. I looked over Phil’s shoulder at the calm river through the trees. I could see the faintest glimpse of one of those little metal boats skimming in our direction – saw a couple of good ol boys on the thing tipping back beers with fishing poles in their hands.

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