Bullet Journal: Confessions of a Modestly Prolific Hitman for Hire, Entry 2,319
Entry 2,319
Dearest Abigail,
I have something of a unique client today. The person who hired me is convinced that my client is, well, there’s simply no pretty way of putting this, a lycanthrope. You know. A Loup Garou. A Wendigo. Fine. If we are going to be utterly crass about it, in the parlance of today’s youths, a werewolf.
You know that my client can’t possibly be a you-know-what, and I know that it can’t be a you-know-what, but that hardly signifies because to the one who is footing the bill, the dratted man-wolf thingies are as real as this bakelite wireless right in front of me.
Darling, you know I don’t hold with such irrational flights of fancy. My fancy never manages more than a brisk walk even at my very whimsiest. As far as I’m concerned, super natural is what they call those acai berries they started putting in all of the health tonics lately. And although it doesn’t make much economic sense in my particular industry, when it comes to people’s beliefs, I’m a live and let live kind of fellow. It’s no brass off my pince-nez if the man on the park bench across from me happens to believe that the moon is made of cheddar. It’s utterly ridiculous, and not just on astrophysical grounds. I mean, look at the thing! If it were made of some form of cheese, it would so obviously be a double gloucester.
But the reason that I am able to charge such exorbitant prices is because I offer discreet, bespoke service and I don’t ask any questions. And frankly, compared to some of the other unsolicited reasons that my customers insist on foisting upon me, contracting me to dispose of an individual affected by lunar induced transmogrification is practically sane.
I must confess, however, that I did rather skimp on some of the customer’s more outlandish requests. Bullets made from silver may sound impressively occult, but, good as I am, I simply can’t do the job with silver bullets.
I plan on closing the deal at five hundred yards, which means the high powered rifle, which means an alloy that won’t fall apart on me before it’s even out of the barrel, which means no silver. Why not just shoot him from closer range, you may ask, but mystical mambo jumbo or no, I am not getting closer than five hundred yards to a person who thinks they turn into some kind of simian canine hybrid.
Nor do I plan on doing the deed at the stroke of midnight. You know how my leg gives me gyp in the damp and the cold after that business in Borneo when that elephant gored me. That’s why I’ll never work with mice again.
I know what you must be thinking. From a certain perspective, it may seem like I’m skirting quite close to the line and misleading my customer by not following his carefully laid protocols to the letter, but at the end of the day, as my customer explained, all of these are but what he deems necessary precautions to insure that the client not only expires, but, as it were, does not inconveniently de-expire.
Now, what I’ve done is, with the assistance of little Amanda two doors down, who, as you no doubt remember is just an absolute wiz with the computing machines, I’ve consulted with what Amanda calls “message boards” on the subject of werewolf reanimation. All the leading experts agree that if the subject in question persists in its deceased state for more than eight days, then the odds of regeneration shrink to less than one in ten thousand.
Just to be safe, I’ll keep the client in the downstairs waiting room for a full fortnight, and then, assuming the world continues to operate under the principles propounded during the Age of Enlightenment, I’ll simply present my evidence of the client’s persistent expirated state, and the customer need be none the wiser about the particulars of my methods.
Yours in Eternal Affection,
Archibald Marius Thistlewaite IV
