My Problem

I had to track down the lowlife that had shot her. I knew I could say it was the Jets, not the Jets like the street gang whose main threat is there well-choreographed tap dancing like in West Side Story. Instead it was Danny Maxell’s gang of Jets, where one wrong look could land someone in hospital, or worst.

My main problem however, was what to do with the body. I couldn’t carry it around without getting noticed. But couldn’t leave it there either. I then decided to take my coat off and put it over the body. I hope some tramp doesn’t steal my coat.

I knew where to find Danny and his Jets, it was small places called the Flying Horse, not a very threatening name, but believe me these people were more like animals and would know if a stranger was in their territory.

I had to check my gun had enough bullets in it. The whore I had paid to much money for had tried to threaten me, with my own gun. Whore.

I reached into my pocket; the handle of my gun still had blood on it. I wiped it on the grass, not like anyone will care. After all it was just a whore. I opened up the gun and saw that it was fully loaded, all 8 of my beautiful bullets. If you don’t own a gun you won’t understand the pleasure from putting bullets in and knowing that you have the ability to shot any dirty scum in the face and then through the chest. It’s almost sexual and I love it.

Do I care if Danny was involved in this shooting? No. I know it wasn’t him, I also know that if a policeman was found holding a dead hooker it would mean I’d be back sorting out paperwork. Then again would anyone really miss it? Besides this would be a great change to put Danny and his Jets where they belong. A morgue.

At a time like this there are two important things to do. Check I didn’t leave my id in my coat and take my money back from that cheap whore.