Dammit! Vindicator thought to himself. I’m an agent of an elite branch of the Canadian government, why the hell can’t I just get a hold of myself and stop stealing?

Vindicator ran through the events of the day. He woke up, hand-ground some coffee beans, and brewed the best cup of joe this side of Saskatchewan. Then he was off. First he ran into a grandma, and he stole her purse.

Awesome, some bobby pins. Those will come in handy picking Dripple’s locks. I heard he’s got some well-aged Dom Perignon hidden in his safe. A combination lock pick and safe crack job is pretty tough, but I think I’m up to it after all the practice I’ve had.

Vindicator kept going down the street until he saw a bum on the sidewalk, panhandling. This guy was always good for a buck in three card Monty. Deftly palming the ace of spades, Vindicator cons the man out of his morning’s donations. There’s something sickly sweet about taking money from the homeless.

After checking up on his Moll, who kicked up his cut of the tricks she had turned, Vindicator stopped in with some friends of his on the status of their bank robbery plan.

Yeah, boss. I think we might have to grease that security guard there. The rest of it is in order. Heard he’s a bit jumpy on the trigger, but not too bright and hard pressed for cash ever since you gave him that emergency high-interest loan. Should go off without a hitch tonight.

Vindicator stepped outside from the meeting, and it was like the oceans parted in front of him to reveal his fate. There, crossing the street with that unmistakable mindless, hopeless look only worn by the damned, was a homeless man that no one would miss. He was clearly out for a stroll just waiting to be shot.

That’s odd. Why would he be out for a stroll? If you were that sort of sick sadist that wanted to pay a guy’s family off so that you could shoot him, why wouldn’t you make sure that you were the guy that was going to shoot him? This guy must have been walking around on the street for at least, like, forty-five seconds. Way longer than any competent killer would need to take his shot.

Bang!

Vindicator lined up his shot in all of a half second. No hesitation, no regret. Like a true professional. There’s never any need to take more than two seconds, really. If it takes longer than that, you’ve done something wrong.

You know, that’s the thing about this contract killing. I bet the guy that bought that knows exactly how to shoot, even. He’s just soft and lazy because not many people have the stones to drop a man as he walks across the street. He could have taken this shot long ago, but since he didn’t strictly speaking “have” to do it, he didn’t bother to do it. Why put out a fire if your house is insured, eh?

Vindicator savored the moment of the kill and reached for a cigarette. That’s odd. My lighter and wallet are gone. He looks down the street and sees a man running away. Oh, you rat bastard. Adrenaline rushes through his veins and he takes off.

Vindicator tracks the man down in the alley in front of an abandoned warehouse. He pulls out his brass knuckles and bashes the man’s face in, breaking his nose in a horrendous torrent of blood. The unrecognizable man drops to the ground, only to receive a torrent of kicks from Vindicator’s steel-toed shoes. The snapping sound ribs make in someone’s chest as they are broken is unmistakable.

That’ll teach you, bastard. Now, I’ll have your wallet and your briefcase. Looks like you’re lugging around something more than case files in there, Vito.

Opening up the case, Vindicator finds what must be around three million dollars, cash, in non-sequential bills. It’s his lucky day. Free kills and free cash. Not a regret in the world.

Later that evening Maple called up Vindicator, irate. It seems that she had spoken with the man who hired that bum for his life, and he was upset that he had only been given an extra minute to hunt his prey. A five minute grace period for slowpokes was apparently in vogue nowadays. Vindicator kicked up his taxes, with a bit extra to cover the cost of a contract, and scowled.

Dammit. I know that guy, too. He knows better. His family line is well respected amongst us shooters. There’s no reason he even needs five minutes. My old man told me that one time he saw that guy’s father beat a pack of hitmen racing to shoot at a Godfather standing behind a hundred and seventy five bodyguards. He was taught by the best. What the fuck’s he need a grace period for, anyway?

Bah. Lower the bar and standards get lowered. People get sloppy when you don’t hold them responsible for their own actions.  

Thats my jail!!!! Dont you dare bust anyone out... not until I leave it for 4353452 minutes. YOU GOT THAT PUNK?