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The wait. The anticipation. That's why he kept taking these jobs, not the actual job itself, that was merely the unpleasant aftermath. Much like cleaning up after sex. Only when everything was on the line, when he was about to kill someone for money, when every sense was alive, calculating risk, watching for interference, waiting for the mark, did he push through the grey fuzz life was surrounded by and see everything in true colour.
So he crouched, here in this piss-stained corner. Waiting for his mark to come out of the club. Throught the thick soles of his boots he could feel the rythmic thump of the bass. Not his kind of music normally, but in this moment it was a glorious thrill along his senses. He shifted his weight to avoid cramping and the tension in his muscles was another epiphany of delight. Here in the dark, alive with the knowledge of what he was about to do.
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Hrmm, 2 paragraphs a day is harder than it looks. Think I have an outline for this now. Lets see where it goes
