Title: Typical, Category: (10th Grade) The fog at the train station was oddly expected. The sound of murmuring voices, the smell of tobacco, and the disgusting, putrid odor of unwashed bodies were heavy in the air. There were newspaper-boys crying out, “Poland invaded by Germany!” and men hurrying forward to buy the newest addition. War was coming… The station workers minding the train paid no attention to the two men that tumbled out of the doors, never mind the third man, who quickly joined them. They were as inconspicuous as anyone could possibly be. The third man, however, was perhaps the oddest of the bunch. He walked with a swagger, full of confidence, and with an air about him that suggested he would give you a serious thrashing if you crossed him, despite his outward calm. His hair was slicked back with some type of product and his suit was ill fitting and rather indistinguishable among the crowd. If you had to guess his occupation, it would be an upstart politician or lawyer or a used cars salesman. A snake. “You have come to me with a request.” Mathew, or Matt when he had a job, the third man, spoke in a soft lulling tone and placed a hat on top of his head to cover any expression that might flit across his face or light up his eyes. “Would there be any other reason to meet you, considering the circumstances?” the first said, his tones so easily betraying his elite breeding. “We have only heard about the specialties you offer.”  A smug smile curled at the ends of his mouth, and Mathew could not help the soft chuckle rumbling within his chest. “I see… So my reputation far surpasses any amount of skill of mine that you may wish to acquire, huh?” “The only skill that I am interested in is the one that goes along with your reputation,” the first said once again, obviously the one much more outspoken regarding this…business arrangement. “It is a dangerous business to partake in.” Another smile was given, this one much different from the first as it merely edged its way onto his mouth and curled just slightly. “For the level of skill you’re inquiring after, it depends on the amount of money you’re willing to pay.” “Anything!” the fat man blurted out in such a blatant amount of stupidity that for a moment Mathew was sickened. “What can I do for you gentlemen?” Mathew said, laying down the charm. It was one of the easiest tactics to use in such circumstances. He pulled out a cheap cigarette from his pocket. The first man moved forward, lowering his head to whisper in Mathew’s ear. “My name is Mr. Welch and my business partner,” he gestured toward the fat man, “is Mr. Dutton.” Mr. Welch’s voice was quiet, a mere whisper that could have been easily carried in the wind. Whispering was suspicious. “We must move somewhere else if we wish to discuss the terms and the…other client,” Mathew said, suspicions aroused. He stepped away from the two men before they could say another word. “Next Monday, I will meet you at the inn on Main Street. Just rent a room and I will come for you.” He turned and left, not even bothering to look back at the two to see their twin looks of confusion. Perhaps soon he would become more than an amateur. It would be much more interesting. --- It was an immoral job. That was very obvious to anyone with eyes. He did not have much money to begin with…and it was a means of a way to obtain money quicker than a regular job. It was rather difficult to find any potential clients, mainly for the reason most of the clients that had approached him would wind up either dead or behind bars. No, it was not the most moral job in the world, but it paid well as long as he was not caught. When he had been younger, he would never have imagined it. Now it was too late to go back to a desk job or even to return to college, as it had become such a craving, such an addiction that damaged his soul so severely, that he could see no other possible choice but following his instincts. The money was the first attraction and now it was just the adrenaline it gave him. Each fiber of his being cried out for the same type of entertainment and excitement that pertained to his job. The hotel bar was crowded, bodies pressing together from side to side. There was loud boisterous laughter thundering in the room as drunken men cornered the waitresses. “Sir, two men have asked you to meet them in room twelve,” a woman said, who appeared to be an employee of one of the two men rather than someone who worked at the inn. Mathew was astounded by the lack of smarts these two people had, but he was sure it would not be the fall of him. “Thank you, Madam.” Holding onto to his hat, he gave her a slight nod as he headed to room number twelve. When he moved, this time in rather well fitting garments, his shoes clicked with each step he took. He could feel the blood running in his veins, the savage addiction pushing him forward. When he rapped on the door, immediately footsteps hurried forward. Throwing open the door, Mr. Welch gave him such a look; it was a wonder he did not reach out and strangle him. “Finally you’ve arrived!” “Of course.” Mathew’s jaw twitched sporadically, the only outward sign of his ire. “I suppose you have been waiting for me for hours…and you couldn’t possibly entertain yourselves without me.” The fat man was sitting on the disgusting florid print couch, smoking his pipe, and not even bothering to turn his watery, rat-like eyes toward their new guest. He seemed bewildered. “I suppose you’ve come to discuss the money,” he mumbled, his pipe wagging with each syllable he spoke. Still, he did not turn around to Mathew. “Of course.” Brushing aside the…direness of the situation, Mathew sat in one of the room’s uncomfortable chairs. “What are you willing to do the job for?” Mr. Welch asked, taking a pipe out of his coat pocket. “It entirely depends which skills that will be relied upon.” An eyebrow arched mockingly. Something almost sinister and curious glimmered in Mr. Welch’s eyes. “It is an associate of ours,” the two men traded looks, “he recently acquired something that we had been ready to buy for several months. The deal was not…run through…but it would be very profitable to you to dispatch this man.” A picture was placed in front of Mathew. The man in it had a large mustache and the typical sleazy businessman look.  Matthew noted the thoroughly combed hair, a cloak that flared at his feet, and a rather beautiful wife hanging off of his arm. “What did he do?” Mathew could not resist the instinct. It was rather an unwritten rule for him; never ask about the…other client he would not meet. “Let’s just say that he took something irreplaceable to us. A business, yes…but one with the potential to became as big as Walt Disney himself.” Ah, this type of man. A skeptical eyebrow rose. “Are you saying the film producer…your business would be as big as him?” The recent release of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs had made the man famous…and not famous like Mathew… “Aye,” Mr. Dutton said, rising from his seat and grabbing a handkerchief from his pocket to swipe at the beads of sweat dripping from his chin. “The business would be one of the most influential and famous of all newspapers in the world! And yet, the sellers were more willing to sell to this man,” a chubby finger pointed at the picture in the middle of the table, “Than two very smart gentlemen!” “I see…” Of course Mathew did…it was rather obvious what this was about. Filthy greed that glittered in those men’s eyes so clearly, so noticeably revolting and yet they would do…anything for this business. How was he supposed to cope with this? Most of his jobs involved adultery and some type of sleazy man with unmitigated jealousy and without a clue to his wife’s misdemeanors. Those jobs were too typical. This was interesting. “I’ll do the job.” Smiles broke out on the faces of the men, but Mr. Welch’s eyes narrowed just in time though. “How much money are you willing to do this job for?” The man in the photo, it had said that he was in New York. “I would be willing to take –.” --- The prices were discussed and rather easily swayed into his favor. Either the two men were even bigger idiots than he had expected or their business savvy was nonexistent. Either way, he was sure the newspaper company would have much more luck with his…other unsuspecting client. The first thing he needed to do was find out the man’s name, and the men, who obviously had no qualms against what they were doing, readily gave it to him. “Gregory Tankins.” Gregory Tankins was most obviously one of the most business savvy gentlemen he had ever researched. The hair was easily wind-swept, a bit of a mockery compared to Clark Gable’s considering the tiny silver hairs in his temple, but nevertheless it was an attempt. The suit in the picture was well made and the money paid for it to be tailored into perfection was unmissed by the young entrepreneur and his rather dazzling lady. The man was in his early thirties; with a rather crooked smile but one that women would easily say was simply charming. He was a normal businessman: known for buying out businesses, making a profit out of them, and selling them for much more than what he originally bought it for. “Who is the dame?” “His wife,” Mr. Welch gave a nasty smile at this. It was his victim. And so it would begin… I am not a monster… As always, he would do more research surrounding the others around him. The wife was a young actress whose career had never gone anywhere. Apparently, it was not something that she aspired to be, still she was young and vibrant, a bewitching beauty, which was obviously more attractive to people than her talent. Gregory Tankins had no living relatives. His mother and father died from natural causes and his elder brother by more than twenty years had fallen due to the Great War. It was time. He had spent a little less than two months gathering information. -- He had a natural inclination to adopt some sort of personage he could adjust himself to, away from his actual being. It was an entirely different type of person than whom he actually was. He was not just a man when he procured a job, he would be cunning, someone with an astounding amount of knowledge in his brain, someone able to cheat authority and not get caught, someone who would only hurt the person he was being paid to take care of and no one else. He was not a monster… I am not a monster… I am not… those were the words that he kept repeating in his mind, while listening to the creak of an elevator as he rode it up to their penthouse apartment. He was clear of any interference. A friend of his that had owed him a favor had taken care of security while Matt went for the big money. Ding! The doors slid open and he pulled out a gun before strolling smoothly forward. Not a monster…it was easier than he expected to sneak inside their rooms, listening in the dark for the steady sound of breathing. It was long after midnight…and the couple would be asleep. Someone coughed… “Honey, I know I heard something!” said the woman, her voice hysterical. “It was nothing, just go back to sleep.” “It will only take a moment to just look,” the woman persisted. “You do it then.” He froze, listening to the sound of covers being thrown aside and the woman’s frustrated muttering, followed by the steady footfalls of someone nearly asleep, but determined. The door swung open and Matt dove soundlessly underneath the coffee table, flattening himself against the floor as much as he could. He watched; a smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth upwards, as the woman moved toward the curtain, tossing it to the side and peering outside. Since they were very, very high up a burglar would be unable to break into the window and he found it rather silly of her to look anyway. The woman sighed softly, feet shuffling as she walked into the next room, her white nightclothes a stark contrast to the darkness. He watched her move, noting that it was unlikely she would carry a weapon of some sort. She disappeared into a different room. Now… I am not a monster…Quietly, his footsteps not making a sound, he padded softly toward the master’s bedroom. He scanned the room for anything that would have revealed him to the other clients. Nothing. It was his only chance. Gun in hand, he took a deep steadying breath and he moved inside. The man’s face was buried into the pillow. The gun slowly rose as he took aim and he could feel the daze that enveloped him. Click… A thrum of excitement and of power that coursed through his being, and of exhilarations of being almost caught, pounded in his ears. The muzzle was now pointed directly at the sleeping man…and he could feel the tremors in his cheek, in his face and the acknowledgement of death…his finger moved. Bang!             An exploding pain erupted in his chest… and he glanced behind him. The woman, tears rolling down her face, held a small gun between her two hands, pointing it directly at him. She was shaking.             Mathew could feel the heaviness in his body, feel the blood slowly soaking his jacket, and could only watch in a dazed confusion. What is…?  Mr. Tankins bolted upwards immediately after, sticking his hand underneath his pillow to bring out another gun. Click… Bang! And another sharp pain erupted into his chest. Mathew let out a piercing shriek. I am not a monster! His knees gave way and he could hear the buzzing, so clearly, in his ears. His body clattered to the floor, the smell of blood and the smoke from a gun heavy in the air. His breathing labored, he could not think, could only lie there and watch as they hugged each other, looking at him with utter revulsion. I am not… The hat shadowing his face was lifted…and he met the eyes of the woman. Immediately, tears filled them. He could feel the blood seeping from his body, the sharp pain in his muscles and spreading throughout his body. The taste of copper on his tongue and the unwavering knowledge that pounded in his head that he failed. His palms were sweating. His breathing stilled… His blue eyes stared at them lifelessly. “So young,” the woman muttered, “could not even be eighteen.” “Best contact the authorities…” 1