My day sucked, thanks. And yours?

Um. Hi. My name is Molly. I haven’t really done this before, but my big sis is kinda curious about my life. So. My blog.

I’m a CPA. No, not the number-crunching kind. The other kind. The kind that sneaks up behind you and caps your ass with a P22. (And guys? Yeah, you jerks that I work with. I AM NOT RAMBO. Nor do I have penis issues. If I need a bigger gun, the job’s gone south.) Yeah, that kind. Certified Public Assassin. Wanna see my card?

So. At Jenni’s request, here’s my life. Where do I start? Guess I’ll start with today.

My partner, Rob, was sick. Out with the Swine Flu, he says. I think it’s far more likely that his “flu-like symptoms” were caused by hanging out with Jim Beam than his family at Thanksgiving (which happens to be next week, but hey, some celebrate early). The job was kinda time-sensitive, this time. Client even paid extra to have it done this close to the holiday.

In any case, since the job was time-sensitive, and since my partner (the jackass) was hung-over—oops, I mean sick, really—I was stuck doing it myself.

Naturally, the mark was HUGE. Easily a foot taller, and probably at least a hundred, hundred and fifty pounds heavier.

So, I do my little act, like I’ve been sent from his boss to collect a necessary, off-the-books update on the project he’s currently working on while everyone else is at lunch, step around behind him while he pulls up the files on his computer, screw the silencer on my Walther, and pop him behind the ear. And waited for his sphincters to loose. And waited. And waited some more.

I finally gave up, hoisting the meatsack up into a fireman’s carry. In my suit. And heels. And I totter off, praying that everyone stays gone just long enough for me to get into the back stairwell.

My luck lasted that long. And long enough for me to rest part of the mark’s weight on the railing. And about halfway down from the tenth floor to the basement and its dumpsters.

And then, Mr. Dead Weight voided. All down my right side, front, back, and sleeve.

So, I cussed a little, checked my P22 in my shoulder holster, and my P99 in my other hideout (not all of my colleagues work for the same company, and sometimes, business is cut-throat. Literally). Neither gun was covered in effluvia, so I carefully tottered my way down the rest of the stairs, and heaved the corpse into the dumpster. They’ll likely find it tomorrow. And his family, if he has one, can have the funeral before Thanksgiving. They can even have an open casket—it’s why I do my jobs with a .22.

Shit. I just realized I left my grocery list in my suit jacket that I tossed with the twerp that shat all over me. And that letter from Mom I still had to answer (sorry, Mom).

Damn it. This day cannot get better.

At least my kitty loves me.