Cat Lingerie

MR. VICTIM sits on a park bench.

MR. VICTIM: You’re a little late, aren’t you?

MR. KILLER rises from behind the park bench, gun in hand.

MR. KILLER: Sorry. I got caught up in traffic.

MR. VICTIM: Uh-huh. Well. I suppose you’re here to kill me, then.

MR. KILLER: If that’s alright with you.

MR. VICTIM: I’d rather you didn’t, but I’m sure Mother has already paid you.

MR. KILLER: Actually, she talked me down to store credit.

MR. VICTIM: (scoffs) Typical. But that’s Mother for you. Can’t even be bothered to properly compensate her own son’s killer.

MR. KILLER: To be honest, I’m not even sure what I can do with two-hundred dollars in cat lingerie. I don’t even have a cat.

MR. VICTIM: Focus, please.

MR. KILLER: Right. Sorry.

Mr. Killer aims, pulls the trigger. The gun goes CLICK.

MR. KILLER: What the Hell?

MR. VICTIM: Something wrong?

Mr. Killer pulls the trigger again and again. No BANG-BANG, only CLICK-CLICK.

MR. VICTIM: You’re not very good at this, are you?

Mr. Killer inspects the gun.

MR. KILLER: This gun has no bullets.

MR. VICTIM: Pity.

MR. KILLER: Damn budget cuts.

An uncomfortable silence.

MR. VICTIM: Should I get going, then?

MR. KILLER: No, no. Give me a minute. I’ll figure something out.

MR. VICTIM: I’m sure you will.

Mr. Killer hands the gun to Mr. Victim.

MR. KILLER: Here. You do it.

MR. VICTIM: Do what?

MR. KILLER: Do it yourself.

MR. VICTIM: You want me to execute myself with an unloaded gun?

MR. KILLER: You could bludgeon yourself with it.

MR. VICTIM: Aside from that being a very stupid idea, why don’t you do it yourself?

MR. KILLER: Look. I don’t go around telling you how to do your job, so don’t go telling me how to do mine. Besides, I don’t get paid enough to work up a sweat.

MR. VICTIM: At this point, I’m wondering why they bother paying you at all.

MR. KILLER: I’m sorry?

MR. VICTIM: I mean, you’re hardly earning that two-hundred dollars of cat lingerie.

MR. KILLER: You know what? Forget it. I don’t have to take this.

MR. VICTIM: Mother won’t be happy about this.

MR. KILLER: What do you mean?

MR. THIRD-PARTY wanders in, gun in hand, misguided by his phone’s GPS.

VOICE: (phone) You have arrived at your destination.

MR. THIRD-PARTY: Mr. Killer?

MR. KILLER: You can’t be serious.

MR. THIRD-PARTY: Deadly, I’m afraid. Nothing personal, though. Strictly Business.

Mr. Third-Party aims at Mr. Killer, pulls the trigger. The gun goes CLICK.

MR. THIRD-PARTY: Son of a bitch…