i started a new effing story. well, i didn't really start it, as this part is somewhere in the middle. if all goes according to plan, this will be a slightly comedic story about this hitman who's a little careless with his work, and it will get very serious at the climax of the story, and then end sadly. i doubt this will get beyond short-story length, which is good because the world needs fewer katie-novels. (this means that i can only produce novel-length stories under extreme deadlines; see nanowrimo) oy. my original plan for this was to write it as a script, and at the end, "pyramid song" by radiohead would be playing (which is, in my opinion, one of very very few good songs by radiohead. fucking emo kids).

anyway. this story takes place in boston, which i arbitrarily chose; it could change, i guess, though location doesn't seem to be very important as of yet. our main character's name is ryan foster, although everyone - including himself - refers to him as foster. he's kind of dick, as you'll see; i assume he's not a very sociable type. he's british, by the way - when i said i was goin g to write this as a script, i had tim roth in mind while writing his character. go figure.

this kid he's talking to is ethan (i've not decided his last name yet, but it's not important, since it's not his real name, which figures strongly into the plot). ethan's among the homeless in boston, recently so, and he's a fairly attractive boy. he does ... things to get money. poor ethan. foster, walking home from somewhere - probably a grocery store, convenience store, whatever - hears some noise down an alley, some screaming and struggling and such - and, being a mostly decent guy, goes to see what the fuck is going on, and finds this kid in some sort of struggle with a guy who is much larger than he is. probably about to be assaulted sexually, i don't know. foster pistol-whips the guy, kicks him a little bit, and asks the kid what the hell was going on. apparently the guy was giving the kid money to act out some rape fantasy of his - oops. but it's okay, because the kid is pretty good-humored about it, since all he has to do now is take the guy's money and go.

foster asks him why he was letting the guy do this to him, and he says that he has to eat somehow. foster, again being a decent guy, says he can come and stay with him. of course ethan accepts, because it's boston, in the wintertime. some other things happen, and we come to this part:

  "Well, you know there's the stereotype of the callous, heartless hitman who was abused as child who really just wants to be loved."
   "Is there?" Foster replied idly, lighting a cigarette.
   "Yeah." There was a pause. "Well?"
   "'Well' what?"
   "How well do you fit that stereotype?"
   "What the fuck kind of question is that?"
   "A simple one. Come on, Foster, I'm just curious."
   "Then I guess it's at least halfway accurate."
   "How so? Details, please."
   "Fuck you." He inhaled of his cigarette deeply, blowing the smoke out in a long trail. "Well, the callous heartless bit isn't exactly right. I mean, it's not like I'll kill anyone, you know. The people I go after are mob bosses, drug dealers, pimps. Even some people in the slavery market. I don't take jobs just because some poor bastard can't pay back a loan." He glanced pointedly over at Ethan. "Besides, I took the time to save your sorry arse a few nights ago, which, I may add, is a pretty rare thing in Boston."
   "Very true. Continue."
   "So the abuse bit. I don't know. I guess you could call it that. I certainly did have a pretty upsetting childhood."
   "How so?"
   "Beatings. Molestation. Wasn't my parents, though. Well, my father did beat me pretty frequently, but the other thing ... that was my uncle."
   "Jesus."
   "Don't worry about it. I'm over it."
   "So you say. So what about the last part, hmm?"
   "I think the desire to be loved is pretty much universal. It's not just a hitman thing, it's a human being thing."
   "That's also true." He lay down across Foster's lap, and looked up at him. Foster raised an eyebrow at him, and let his head fall back onto the headrest, staring at the ceiling. "So does all that baggage ever get in the way of your work?"
   "I'd hardly call it baggage."
   "It's baggage."
   "Whatever you call it, no. It doesn't get in the way of anything."
   "You have intimacy issues, don't you?"
   "And where the fuck did that come from?"
   "The way you tensed up just a second ago."
   "What, when you just parked your arse less than an inch away from the most sensitive of areas? The presence of anyone that close to my cock is going to get a reaction out of me." Ethan grinned.
   "Your cock, huh?"
   "Yes, my cock, you idiot. Sweet Mother Mary, why did I bother with you?"
   "Who knows. It seems you made a mistake."
   "I was just thinking that myself."
   "What, are you gonna kill me?" he asked, and laughed again.
   "Maybe." Despite how irritating this kid was getting, Foster found himself suppressing a grin. How disconcerting.
   "You're not a very intimidating hitman, you know."
   "That's because I'm not yet waving my gun in your face."
   "Oh, is that all. Sorry to disappoint you, but I've had guns stuck in my face before. You'd have to do a little more than that, I think."
   "Somehow I doubt that, but whatever. Get the fuck off me." He pushed Ethan off the couch, lightly kicking him in the ribs when he hit the floor.
   "Alright, alright. Jesus," he muttered, pushing himself up off the floor and flopping back onto the couch. "You're so comfortable, though."
   "That's what I've got pillows for."
   "You know, some people might actually recognize the fact that I'm hitting on them."
   "You think I don't?"
   "You do?"
   "Of course I do. You're about as subtle as a fucking sledgehammer to the face, kid."
   "Oh. I guess I'm not used to subtle rejections then."
   "Clearly."
   "What a drag," Ethan sighed.
   "Yeah, it is a drag. You caught me on a bad night. Try again tomorrow and we'll see."

   "You know what's strange?"
   "Besides the fact that you've woken me up at too-fucking-early o'clock and I've now got my gun pointed straight at your face?"
   "Yeah, besides that."
   "What?"
   "The way you say 'fuck' really turns me on."
   "Be glad then. I've noticed my usage of the word has increased exponentially since I met you."
   "Could you put the gun down? It's making me a little nervous."
   "You come into my room at -" A pause. "Nine-thirty, wake me up to tell me something I couldn't care less about, and expect me to comply with your requests?" A click of a hammer. "I should kill you, you presumptuous little fuck."
   "Should, but won't. I think it's your accent."
   "What?"
   "I said I think -"
   "I heard what you said. Now explain it."
   "Your accent. You know, you've got a certain way of saying 'fuck'."
   "As in, get the fuck out of my bed before you are propelled across the room by the bullet that will lodge itself in your brain?"
   "Exactly like that. That's just fucking hot."
   "Jesus Christ, will you please leave me alone and let me go back to sleep?"
   "Fine, fine. Will you say it again?"
   "Say what again?"
   "C'mon."
   "Fuck you."
   "Ha! Thanks!" Footsteps, and then the click of a door as it shut. The figure on the bed muttered a few more curses and pulled his pillow over his head. After a few more minutes of cursing and muttering, the figure stood up, threw a pillow across the room in frustration, and left the room.