There wasn’t anything striking about the killer that stood at his window, looking down at the carnage that used to be a Los Angeles street. He had what people would call a regular or boring face. His wardrobe consisted of your standard jeans and t-shirt. And his personality was boorish and quiet. The only thing that would let on that there was something hiding in the darkness of the man standing in front of the window, was his eyes. They were blue but at the moment were black. AT first glance you might not notice that they were dead eyes but if you looked harder you would see. They were the eyes of a shark. If a shark could have blue eyes.
Hamingford had been killing people way before The Day of the Song. The shadow government that employed him before the world went insane had described him as having a detached attitude towards human life. The man looked at people as jobs. He did, however, take pride in his work and loved doing it. He loved a good challenge. He liked when they fought back.
How difficult is this one going to be? He thought. Probably not much of a challenge.
In his years of killing he’d been surprised only a few times. A memory of a bloodied man giving him the finger flashed in his memory.
“What was that guy’s name,” Hamingford said to the empty room. “Langly, Lash… No, Langston. Hamingford smiled, remembering the fight the guy had put up. He loved it when one of his jobs had a family. That guy wouldn’t have put up such a fight if his wife and kid hadn’t been watching. Hamingford thought. He’d killed them later but barely remembered it. He never cared or remembered about the easy ones.
Hamingford tapped at the window slowly as he thought about the trip ahead. He enjoyed these moments. When all there was, was the quiet and his memories. His meditation was broken by a low wail that came from the apartments only bedroom.
“Oh shit! I almost forgot about you.” Hamingford said.
He walked over to the bedroom door, giggling to himself. The person in the room had gone silent. Hamingford could hear the man’s labored breathing. Hamingford stood inside the doorframe and stared down at his catch.
“Pa… Please, sir… Just let me go.” The man said. Spittle ran down the dirty man’s chin, mixed with tears of fright.
Watching the drifter plead for his life made Hamingford annoyed. He couldn’t believe there even were still drifters. It wasn’t like there weren’t any places to stay. There was an overabundance of shelter now that most of the world’s population was dead. He’d picked this one up right outside of La Jolla. Feast had given him a job down there. He needed one of his ex- advisors erased. The man had gotten bitten by the travel bug, and Feast hadn’t liked that. As he was driving back, he’d seen the man that was currently tied up on the bed, on the side of the road. Hamingford couldn’t believe his luck.
He stood at the foot of the bed and looked at the man with eyes that were no longer blue.
Please! I’ll do whatever you want. Do… you want sex. I can do that.”
“Sorry, buddy. I don’t swing that way. Not to mention, you’re not my type.” Hamingford said in a sing-song voice.
“What can I do.” The man said in between sobs.
Hamingford pulled out his knife, and the man started to scream. He knelt down next to the man. “Will you shut up!” The man instantly went silent.
He put the blade up, so his victim could see it. Hamingford heard the poor bastard’s bladder let go, and it made him smile. The man had finally accepted his fate, and it made Hamingford sad. He had been hoping for a better fight.
“You asked me, what turns, me on… Floats my boat.”
The man nodded his head fast.
Hamingford closed his eyes and listened to the man’s breathing, feeling his fear. He opened his eyes back up. “This.” He cut the tip of the man’s nose off with one quick motion. The flesh fell and laid on the bed beside the man’s now ruined face. Hamingford watched the man’s surprise. He doesn’t feel the pain yet. He thought. Hamingford the assassin, Hamingford the terrible, kept cutting. Finally, the man started screaming.
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