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the cookies and booze, anyway - until sugar and beer goggles make the targets more agreeable to handing over the rights to their sperm. Their own personal contract with the Devil, if the Devil in their minds is an amoral erotomaniac, with a delusional sleep disorder due to the deafening sound in her head of her body-clock ticking away every night.
    At least head office only want hit-men killed, I think to myself. I'm glad I'm not a man, risking meeting women trying to harvest my DNA every time I go out for a drink.
    I get to Terry's and wait in the car. I feel like a benefits investigator on a stakeout, or a Hollywood gangland hit-man waiting to carry out a drive-by. I'm wearing my old blue petrol/oil-resistant mechanic's overalls over my work uniform to save time and bloodstains, my ponytail tucked into the back of an Exxon-Mobil baseball cap, and have put one of the garage's plastic-bag seat-covers over the driving seat, as if I'm returning a car from servicing. For some reason, dressing like this makes me think I should wash the car more often.
    I get my phone out and play Tetris, pretending to text or something more social, in case anyone wonders what I'm waiting around for. It does feel far too 'Comedy Hit-Man' to be hanging around in a ropey disguise, instead of whatever I could grab off the floor, or out of the fancy-dress box. I even had to put some thought into it. Anyone watching would half expect me to pull off a mask, and turn out to be Eddie Murphy or Chevy Chase.
    I miss my Skellington outfit. I'd even be happier with a Tanoshii Meals paper bag over my head, a snorkel and goggles, or a lot of kid's party face-paint. Or my Iron Fist killer cupcake nightshirt, and a sleep mask. I feel more obvious, hanging around dressed as something contrived, than turning up as myself on a bad day.
    This better not take long. I don't want to be late for my REAL job.
    I also hope that this isn't the way the job's going to go from now on. Stuck in plain view, trying to act normal when I'd much rather be on a roof, or in a tree, being a psychopath. All this parading around in public is out of character for me. I'm more at home creeping around in the dark, at the dead of night. I heave a sigh. It's probably just in my nature. Not a personality disorder that can be categorized, or a lifestyle choice, e.g. to identify with a niche group like Goth or Emo. I always was a night vigilante. Worrying what business anyone else had, to be out late at night. If they're not star-gazing, like I started out doing originally.
    Sometimes, they're only out delivering pizza.
    I wonder what hit-men emulate or pick as their role models when deciding on their character. It's not like nightclub teamwork, where you have the osmosis of absorbing the methods, attitudes and approaches of the real people working around you. A lone hit-man only has his iconic idealism to lead him. Whether it's Michael Caine, Jean Reno, Daniel Craig, or Samuel L Jackson. Even Timothy Olyphant. A lone hit-man has a better chance of survival than in a team, who are always at risk of the next stab being in their own back, severing them from their cut in the contract payout. But in terms of their sanity, keeping their heads above water in the job, what do they turn to if Hollywood only contributes a part of their inspiration?
    Maybe alcohol or drugs. Maybe a religion. I happen to know a number of cult-like martial arts clubs with some shiny-eyed Bruce Lee and Hatsumi Masaaki fanatics in. Maybe even the Territorial Army. Or maybe just some of the more lurid console games.
    As a mental case myself, it's more about looking for the ordinary to inspire me, away from the job - to absorb the culture of. Psychologically, I'm on the inside of a dangerous mind, looking out. I'm forever mystified at what motivates others to want to find a way in. Except for greed, in its various forms. It's the greed that leads to acts of evil. But a dangerous mind sticks around even while you're knitting