To Die For (Part 1)

The first assignment is always hard. You seem filled with the nervous twitters of the first day of school. It seems like a game almost, until you actually get the job. You flick through the notes, select the tools that you need to finish the job. Then you have to hunt, hoping that it will work. You have your finger on the trigger; trying to hide the fact you�ve never done this before. They die; you dispose of the body and go to sleep. Repeat once monthly. Pocket $50 000 each time. Simple, really.

It gets better after a few years, I found out. There were 2 simple choices. Become robotic, no emotions flowing through your veins, no remorse, no sorry and no joy, save for some high-class hooker in the �Cross.

Or you could take my option. Become filled with an insatiable lust for blood. Let every death be another challenge. Learn that a syringe filled with air is more dangerous than any toxin on the planet. I now view every assignment as a challenge, a chance to improve my skills.

Everyone thinks we�re always trying to get close to people. That usually takes time, and if there�s a business deal, that�s far too slow. Five days of planning is the most you need, two for execution. Then it�s smart business practice to run to some lonely island on the Pacific, one that doesn�t mind who stays there as long as their loaded, then head back to the city.

Maybe I should tell you of my rise to where I am now. From the gutter to here.

I was only thirteen years old, living at home with my parents. We all lived in the falsely named town of Eden, which is a small fishing town on the South Coast, halfway between Sydney and Melbourne. The main street was full of decay, the people nothing but people who were tired of life. We had none of the holiday resort glitz of the nearby town of Merimbula, or the small-town charm of Bega.

My parents ran a motel. It was always full of people using the coast road, who realised that you couldn�t drive a thousand kilometres in a day. It was all run down, all the rooms having a scenic view of the car park and highway. Inside, they were dark, full of furniture that was brought cheaply in 1989. They were always awake for sixteen-hour periods and never saw me. I didn�t have many friends; books, computers and television bored me. So I was forced to wander the streets, bored outta my brain and becoming a feast for flies.

One day I had the unfortunate luck of walking in my mother during the evening. I saw her nude, with her legs wrapped around some truckie that stopped in the night, both of them groaning in ecstatic delight. Even my thirteen-year old brain knew what was going on.

�What are you doing?� I asked in what I hoped would be a level voice. I didn�t expect her to say anything, but at least it would spoil the mood a little. She turned and kind of mumbled to herself.

�Making $30 an hour. Now go back to sleep,� she said drowsily. I guess there was no accounting for taste. My mother had nothing that would make any guy shed their clothes in forbidden lust, her clientele being horny lovesick truck drivers.

I could have told my dad. But how could I do that? Thirteen year olds aren�t allowed in the pub, and I didn�t want to bother him. He�d find some way to blame me, find someway of beating me below the ground.

What did I have to gain by staying? None of them would miss me at all. All I would have to do is think of a new identity for my new life. Something that sounded vastly different from my current name. It didn�t take me long to find one. It sounded quite unusual, something to stick in people�s minds.

As soon as I find a Sydney-bound truck, Mortis Necare shall be on it, travelling to his new life. I was ignorant about life on the streets, but I knew that secrets spread in this town. As soon as the story broke, I would be dead.

Now is the time to leave.