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was the easy part, but one which I wanted to have fun with.
    She lay there slowly burning. The faint red tinge of her skin was a telltale sign that not only had she been in the sun too long, but she had also not planned on being out so long. Otherwise, she would have used a little sun cream. My eyes moved to the table one more time, and sure enough, there was no cream in sight. She would certainly suffer the next day were she to live long enough. But that option was no longer on the table. At the very least she would never have to worry about skin cancer or even worry whether she would burn in the midday sun ever again! In a strange way, I guess I was actually doing her a favor.
    Like I said earlier, I had decided to be a little unique and have some fun with her—that is, I wanted to try something a little more interesting than the average hit that one would perform. A double tap to the heart and one to the head was exactly what the CIA wanted to avoid. It was the previous evening that I had stumbled on the idea of mixing it up a little, so I planned to literally do exactly that. The thought occurred to me while whisking up some eggs for my supper. I was making a rather thick omelet, which I have to admit I really love. In the mix were of course eggs, but also onions, mushrooms, chives, ham, and plenty of cheese . . .
    Anyway, back to the whisking. While I was whisking away, my mind drifted a little, and I wondered if it was possible to whisk up a brain—her brain. I figured that I would not have the time to open her skull, remove the brain, then plop it into a mixer. On further consideration, I calculated I would have less than five minutes to park, walk the twenty meters to the house, make my way to the garden, and then subdue her, and finally have about twenty-five minutes to carry out the actual murder. She rarely had visitors, and the neighbors had no view to the patio, where she lounged in the sun. I had originally wanted to simply slice open her throat—simple, efficient, and quick. I soon came to realize that I had a warped imagination and craved the obscure, something perhaps you may have picked up on in my earlier exploits when I was growing up. Unable to avoid flexing my imagination, I let it flex.
    To make the job of mixing up her brain easier, I considered using a stiletto-type knife instead of the traditional flat blade. It would need to be rounded—more like an ice pick than a knife, I guess. This would prevent the blade from getting stuck when plunged into the top dead center of the skull, and there would be no limitation in angular motion when being rotated. I would then be quite free to gyrate the knife and mix up her brain.
    Well, that was the theory anyway. There was also the possibility that directly after the initial plunge, she might still be aware. Fascinating . . . As I poured the beaten eggs into the pan, I smiled, and the more I thought about it, the more eager I was to find out just how long she would live. After my meal I looked for a knife that would fit the task but could not find anything that fit my mental image of the tool. It was then that I realized that I did have some similarly shaped metal files, which would fit the bill as long as they weren’t too rough. Over the years I had collected a number of DIY tools, having dabbled in a few home and car repairs. In the toolbox I had a growing collection of handheld drills, screwdrivers, and files. As I tended not to throw anything away, even after years of abandon, I subsequently found the tool in question. It had two parts to it. The handle—made of smooth, varnished wood, practically new in appearance—and the metal file itself, coarse but still fine enough to do the job without getting stuck. The metal file was about half an inch in diameter or so and tapered down to a point. Perfect, I thought, and set about testing it.
    I stood behind her; the file was in my right hand. I drew the file up and then with both hands I gripped the file