Vicious

IV

If I'm being 100% honest, I don't think I'm mentally stable.

When I receive a message at 3:00 in the morning telling me that a man by the name of David Copolate needs to be 'dealt' with, my first thought shouldn't be "aw fuck, gas is expensive right now."

But it was.

And now I'm driving halfway across the state, running on two hours of sleep, a cup of coffee and half a tank of gas. All to take care of this fucking bitch. And fucking Hell, gas prices are off the charts. I cringe every time I pass a gas station and read the price. But I can't disobey direct orders.

So here I am, on my way to the city of Alexandria, Minnesota.

In the back seat, I have everything I need to 'deal' with David Copolate. I prefer to get my assignments over with quickly. Clean. In-and-out jobs. One clean shot to the forehead and the victim won't know that they died. But my task tonight isn't to assassinate David Copolate. I am to kidnap him: knock him out, tie him up, and then bring him to Jillian Willard. I don't know what she will do with him, I could care less.

I'm getting paid.

That's good enough for me.

With the amount of snow blowing across the highway, the visibility is shit. I can't see anything, nothing more than ten feet in front of me. I would rather be asleep, warm in my bed. Not speeding down a black ice covered highway before the break of dawn.

And then a thought crossed my mind.

If I total my car, right here - right now... I would save at least $180.00 in gas.

Fuck.

That's tempting.

I eye the other lane, there are no more than 2 cars in sight. People are supposed to be in bed at this hour. Me too.

But nope.

I have to go kidnap some poor twat.

I turn the music up, loud enough that I can ignore the thoughts infiltrating my mind. I have it hooked up to the bluetooth, playing off of my phone.

I have the most random taste in music. I will listen to literally anything. Right now, the song playing is by Rammstien. But the song before it was by Chase Atlantic. My playlist is on shuffle-play, rotating through every song under the sun.

I fucking love Rammstien.

The heavy guitar coming through the speakers is the only thing keeping me awake right now.

After a few hours of driving, I have reached the end of my playlist. And just in time too. Google Maps is saying that David Copolate's house is only a few streets away. I turn the music off, putting my focus on searching for his street number.

142. 

I park my car in his driveway, not caring if it seems suspect. 

The air is crisp as I walk around the side of his house, the type of crisp that hurts my lungs as I inhale. I pull my mask down over my face, covering my nose and mouth. My eyes and hair are still visible, I don't think it will matter if he sees my face, but I'd rather be safe than sorry.

To my luck, his back door is unlocked.  

The stairs leading to the second floor of his house are loud. Creaking under my weight. Besides that, the house is silent. 

He and his wife are divorced, so I don't have to worry about having her hear any of this. She's living in an apartment across town. I'd say she got the short end of the stick seeing as Mr. Copolate here got to keep the house.