I feel sick.

Looking down at the twisted, pleading individual at my feet, I know I can't speak to him without risking a crack in my voice - exposing my emotion. I know that I shouldn't be feeling pity for this man. I shouldn't be feeling anything for him. Bringing my emotion under control, I remember where I am and what I have to do.

Big Ron had sent me. When Big Ron wants something done, it gets done. I don't mention this as an excuse, simply to help explain why I was there. Ron was a big bloke, but it wasn't his size that scared people; everyone feared Big Ron's attitude. He was fond of saying, "If they don' respect you, break their fingers 'til they do respect you'"
He was a big bloke alright, and had, for some time now, been quietly hinting that he considered me a bit weak. I was getting a reputation for never having 'done' anyone. It was imperative that I proved myself worthy to work for Ron. If I couldn't be a useful member of his little team then my own life would soon be in danger. I had tried explaining, several times, but action was needed.

So, I'm away from him, bracing myself against the recoil I know I should expect, I pull the trigger of my 44 Magnum all the way back for the first time in my young life. Once, twice, three times.

I look at his head. It's disgusting. The bullets have done their damage. In corner of the cold warehouse, steam is rising from the warm holes in his skull, and I shiver. The bullets inside are very hot. Why do I feel so cold?

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