…what a goddamned combination.
By the way, should anyone find this, this is the private journal of Alfie Jones. Either you’ve mugged me (in that case, “Fuck you!”) or you’ve happened upon my dead corpse (in which case, make sure my eyes are shut). You’re welcome to my trusty laptop, though good luck finding out the password. Better off just wiping it and starting fresh or pawning it off, the encryption is that good.
Anyway, where was I? Does that ever happen to you; you’re about to start digging into some deep shit and completely get sidetracked? Motherfucker, okay…. here we go.
The Greater Midwest cities have always been kind to me. They’ve secured me work; solid, worthwhile work for the multiple families and syndicates lining their darkest of alleys. Previous time in the Marines left me handy with a gun and the money for these jobs was just too good. Killing evil folk, well folk more evil than me, for cold hard cash? What’s not to like?
Even got to train and work with a legend: Alabama Malvo. Old feller was retiring and probably felt guilty about the trail of bodies he left in his wake, so what’s an old assassin to do when hanging up his silenced Beretta? Teach the next generation, of course. And that next generation was me. I’m grateful.
Omaha. Chicago. St. Louis. Boise. Denver. I’ve put bullets down in every major city, laying waste to the human traffickers, the fentanyl smugglers, even a small-time inside trader who felt the need to pistol-whip the pizza delivery boy for getting his order wrong.
Sure, I’m a contract killer and maybe this is some pathetic form of a manifesto, but these are my words on the page and my words are true. I have zero guilt for what I have done and what I will continue to do.
Anyway, Royce, my handler, says it’s too hot for any work right now. There are giant shifts of power happening and he wants me to lay low until it all blows over and we know where to land. Such bullshit.
Hell, anything I could be writing into this damn pile of papers could be all bullshit.
Oh, and if there’s a small key nearby, help yourself to a handsome treasure in one of the locker boxes at Union Station in Kansas City. Ain’t giving you the locker number, neither… you gotta’ work for it.
p.s. Where the hell can you get a decent americano in this god-forsaken armpit of a city?
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