Homicidal Intercourse
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There I was, on the 49th floor of the Hotel Gallic, room 4917, a low-caliber sniper rifle pointed at the cranium of Wallace Gotti - one the of the biggest buisnessboys in the tech sphere. I vaguely remembered the steps I had endured, fleeting memories carrying me, clothed in officers attire, up an oft-forgotten fire escape. A quick peek - yes, I still had them on. It was questionable the level of cleverness I retained when my brain was kicked-out, but the implants weren't designed so people could make smart decisions: only the tough ones. Clearly, watching the paint dry wasn't expected but foreseeable, and frankly there were much worse times to be kicked-out. A point-and-shoot lulled my mind out of the haze and monotony of societal life and the bulb of excitement jolted me. Gotti paced around his apartment; lofty and cream-colored (they all seemed to like cream), stilted tones aching for a violent release - one I could provide in .22 magnum. He ranged out to about four-hundred years; a distance my simple telescopic sight would close and one which any self-respecting police station assumed would need a targeting device. I admonished the abhorrent 'skill' of the new era, but I had to admit it let us play at ease. After all, that's what split the criminals from the profiteers: the crims got paid cheap, disposable one-time scraps while the profiteers got paid a salary, per-job and consumable figures. I couldn't help but relish the rush of being kicked-in, your identity flowing as a newsreel of all your merits and sidenotes of failure; some loved it, some didn't. The pleasure nearly brought me to orgasm.

Several seconds after my mentality had digested its senses, it was slammed with near-coal darkness. It was well lit in Gotti's apartment. A physical survey revealed I wore sunglasses at night. Funny. A simpleminded solution would have been to remove them, but my unwritten professional sense demanded I keep them on for noone and everyone: a triumph of value that drove the egotistical masturbation of the kick-in to shamefully blissful levels. Such were the pleasures of the job. In Gotti's apartment, he lay on a cushioned sepulcher, an increasing pressure in myself nearly driving the penultimate nail when a dissonant knocking rapped in my left ear, alluding to having bugged the apartment prior to my little escapade! Oh, how devilish yet fun! He answered the door after a set or two of knocks, allowing inside and escorting a rather petite yet buxon woman (or lady, fairly). She was clothed less-than scantily - a bath towel could have covered her up more than she currently was. One of the Brown Oaks callgirls; a fair shot it was also his favorite. Dragging him to the bedroom, she removed their clothing with the skill of a talented marksman trying to hit a dime at two feet away. They shared a naked embrace on the mattress, and he took her as they had taken my thoughts. After all, they were no different than I at this moment?

Their brashness and loudness (enough so that it forced me to rip the earpiece out) at making love, so close and obvious by their open window. The surely intended voyeurism matched my own little show I performed for them, chambering my rifle in a match of physical act to mental wit. I surely could last longer than he could, the ace of a profiteer with the analytics and pleasure for business would most definitely overload the next kick-in; I almost quit in excess so I could manually program a kick for the surefire job well done. The police would be baffled and livid, fearful of the inevitable retaliation for whatever bigwig corporation he worked for - they were all interchangeable and easily angered. The law would search for the killer, no avail, and most likely pin it on the whore to avoid too much of a paycheck cut. He could see the headlines, "Prostitute murders Businessman over Jealousy, more on Page Four." A story would be concocted for the greedy minds of the public, not dissimilar to prostitutes of sensationalism. It would be ecstatic, gratifying to read!

I couldn't hold it in - I shot a little early, but the deep crimson and brain matter staining their tryst let me know I had hit the target. Time was of the essence now, pack up quick, hit home. A scream from the apartment; the usual. The next kick-in-and-out was something I couldn't hold out for. I deliberated waiting for a job, but I already knew the unadulterated pleasure that was interred in my brain. I envisioned the act again and again where it hit a sexual fervor in me; frankly, I didn't particularly care for physical anymore. It was the mind, and I was hooked on my own thoughts.

Such was the pleasure of the job.

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