Harm set, Harm get   by Elvira Frankenheim

Who am I?

I live alone on the top floor in the 4th story of a rental tenement in some small-town somewhere in the Northeast of the USA. I definitely don't want to live there forever. There are more beautiful places, sunnier places, that is where I would love to live, of course, in the best case together with some hot chick. My parents named me Frank, some 42 years ago. The neighbors know me as Mister Miller; the old lady with the freaky dog always only calls me The Man with the Hat. I always wear this hat, though I defiantly take it off on sunny days, though I as well take it off, when the shit hits the fan. I obediently obey my business partners under the name of Fred Winter. I chose that pseudonym some ten years ago, when I became a killer.

My pastimes? You won't believe it… cooking! Anyone thinking that some contract killer wouldn't be able to serve any fish sticks appropriate to the species, should visit me in my kitchen! And anyone who thinks he never ate dog should just surprise a Chinese cook on the job.

Another pastime is to tell people lies about my true life, my true identity. This is a sure sign of having a lot of fantasy that I put to paper in my spare time. Of course, I've always dreamt of a bestseller, those score like a cheap whore in some residential home for men, with no other intention then to finally retire in Miami, together with my hot chick of course.

On the weekends, I drive the 40 miles with my car into the big city jungle. There is one late night dive, where everyone who is special meets. But most of the ones, meeting there late night, just think, they are something very special. Hot styled chicks stalk on high heels, on their forever quest for the Mr. Right, the one with the thick wallet. But usually, they just run into some bragger, highly indebted, that hauls them home to nevertheless have the night at least end with some kind of sex. When I am really lucky, then I am one of these dazzlers, passing as a banker, that is going to fly to the Bahamas next week with his private jet, and the damn little cute beast gives me some blowjob in my car. When I am even luckier, I get a job. Not referring to any harmless oral sex here, though this can of course have some fatal consequences, too. During the Clinton era, it was one plain blowjob that terminated America's last chance for any functioning democracy.

Saturday, September 11th, 2004

It is shortly past ten p.m. and I enter the nightclub. The owner of this very dump is Will, a black man, I know him from those days back yonder, from my early days. He already had some criminal tendencies; he was arrested on and off, but always got off with some slap on the wrist. Will or "Wild Willy" as we used to call him, never spent too long in jail. By the way, I myself personally never spent any time behind the bars, but the 12 years I spent in the army, came down to the same. I signed up in my younger years, to serve my country that way. There, in the army, you definitely learn to shoot. There you defiantly learn precisely to kill.

I sit down at the bar, keep my hat on, order a double bourbon on ice and ask for Will. The waitress, Carmen, grabs the phone, she is definitely easy on the eyes. One minute later, my old pal shakes my hand. "Hi Frank!" He welcomes me and when being undisturbed, he states: "Snow White is dead. They found the corpse in the forest, big time headlines in the newspapers. The dead woman in the deadwood, matches somewhat, right?" "Additionally, her last name was Woodman. Abigail Woodman, 22 years and unmarried, I read it in the papers. But why then Snow White?" "Because she was that cute. Here, your $17,000." Will pushes my share over. "Thank you, Will. "Five up, Frank. Just come over next week, I 've got a new client, he contacted me yesterday." "Well, hopefully not someone being interested to get rid of Wild Willy," I allow myself to joke. Will laughs back. "Your humor is even blacker than my skin, Frank. "The crass contrast to that, the snow-white cocaine that you always huckster, now then my dear old chap."

Saturday, September 18th, 2004

It is shortly past ten p.m. and I enter the nightclub. The owner of the dump is Will and he already expected me. "Frankie, old chap, I got something for you." We sit down at a table in some quiet corner and I actually take my hat off. Will gets started. "The guy was called Boomerang and passed puberty probably some 45 years ago. Must be someone high on top of some decent American corporation, producing weapons. Thus, he lives rather drawn back and wants nothing to do with any public. "Probably, he isn't standing up to his job." "None of our interests. Our interest is what he pays, and he pays a five number sums." "I haven't ever worked for less, man. For the bucks I would only shoot this bitch of a dog of my neighbor, this thing really sucks big-time with its barking. To make up for it, I would serve it to the old lady as a hot dog that really suits its name. The main dish would be some nice mushroom soup that she would definitely not survive. But well, where we've been? Who am I supposed to blow to kingdom come?" "That's exactly what this Monsieur Boomerang will tell you in person. Tomorrow at three you will have your audience. Only accept cash, ok?" I take a sip off my glass. Sure, it's ok.


Sunday, September 19th, 2004

Around three in the afternoon. The pompous villa lies a little off track and immediately attracts attention. As much as the name plaque, not to be overlooked. B. Boomerang. I ring the doorbell and wait kind of excited in front of the door. A hussy, somewhere around 30 opens the door. "You're surely Mr. Winter?" asks the broad, really attractively dressed; I have to acknowledge, after some high-speed full body scans. Only her visage could be prettier. Who is that chick, somehow looking familiar? His daughter? His affair? His wife? His housemaid? Or just the cleaning woman? It must be either his daughter or his affair. Or his wife, the housemaid and cleaning woman as one.

"Are you Mr. Winter now?" Forced to hear the question a second time. I nod, wordless and enter the house. We traipse through some rooms to the terrace, there; I am welcomed by Mr. Boomerang, pretty well conserved for his age, actually. "Hi Mr. Boomerang, Fred Winter." We shake hands. "Ben Boomerang. Ok, Mr. Winter, straight away. My wife Kylie was murdered a few days ago. I can imagine, who it was and don't ever want to see the person alive. "Hear ya. Okay, no problem. The price. One person twenty thousand! Two person's thirty eight, three persons fifty thousand." "No, eighteen thousand for one and I count on you." Eighteen isn't too bad, fifteen percent for Will. The last job via this Italian with his theocratic tendencies brought some 2,000 more, but well, you shouldn't brag during a recession and while forced to handle all the concurrence from the former East. That's business

"You can count on me, Mr. Boomerang, you can count on me. Eighteen is ok, but cash, please." My new business partner excuses himself, shortly leaves the room and then hands the bundle of notes over. I count them and am definitely content. Then we shake hands again, the contract, a done deal. Ben Boomerang directs me to the living room. "I show you a picture of my wife." He takes a framed photo from the shelve and shows it to me. "That is your wife Kylie?" I take my hat off and scratch my head. "Yes, exactly, we were just freshly married in Europe some three weeks ago. In Paris, the city of love. Kylie was her pet name, no one else but me called her that way. The change of personal status and name were not transmitted to the county yet, thus, the authorities were only informed somewhat later about the marriage, of course, and I informed them.

I study the photo of Abigail Woodman, as if I would have never seen it before. "Mmmh, who could have killed her now?" I ask him. "I am rather sure, her ex. He was allied with her for two months. "They married fast. Who is the ex?" "A hot-blooded Italian from the south." That is right, as right as rain. But he only hijacked her and it was me, shooting her. With a pistol. In the forest. The dead woman in the deadwood. The little mobster couldn't probably find any better location that fast, to have her casted in concrete. According to him, he would rather shit his pants than kill his ex girl and thus consulted Will.

"Yes, I am rather sure it was him, the one, trying to blackmail me. Right after our return from Europe, this Italian high jacked my wife and wanted all my money, wanted to absolutely impoverish me, but I didn't pay. I didn't inform the police, they don't know anything about the high jacking, even today. "So, it's the Italian?" "Find out, whether this jerk did it. If so, kill him. But when he passed this job, then grab the wop at his balls, and drag his cock as long as some spaghetti, till he spits out the name of the killer."

Saturday, September 25th, 2004

It is shortly past ten p.m. and I enter the nightclub. The owner of the dump is Will and everything is due to him. We sit down at some table. "How's it going, Frank? Job done?" "Not yet, Will, but tonight. Here, your $2,700." I push over his share. "But it is really a shit job, Will." "Hey, it cannot be that bad, right? Where is your humor? Are you something like a rabbit that I asked to dig some tunnel through the Rockies? "No, man, even worse. This time it is a really damn lousy shit job. But I'm going to do it." "Ok, Frank, you are outmost dutiful, reliable and never fail. Who should know better then me? C'mon, I'll buy you for a drink." Will whistles for the waitress that serves the double bourbon immediately. But neither the free drink, nor the hottie Carmen help to better my mood. Will takes care, but I would rather beat him up brutally, to then steal his health insurance card, that way the paramedics wouldn't try to drive him to any hospital in the first place.