It was a good job, great even. Despite my skepticism, there were customers aplenty -- so many that once or twice I had to turn requests down. The pay, as I've noted, was more than fair, and it quickly became clear that I could supplement it by lifting the odd item or two after I had, so to speak, put the subject away. This didn't always work out, of course. Sometimes they didn't want to stay dead. One guy, who I'd done in good with an aluminum-handled garrote, woke right up and wanted me to have a beer and maybe watch the game. In spite of myself, I found this a little strange, a touch supernatural, as if, while we were sitting there watching the plasma screen, I could see through him a little, and I didn't stay long. Another, a chipper woman who told me her friends had gotten her a murder for her thirtieth birthday, started plugging me with questions befored I'd even gotten started, like about what I did in real life, what kind of music I listened to, whether I thought the murder thing was stupid, distasteful, "and/or kind of cool" (and/or kind of cool, I said), if, maybe, when we were done I'd like to take some x and "see what happens."
-- The Exquisite by Laird Hunt
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