got a job selling meat. Well, not really. It’s just what I say, you know buy the freezer and we’ll stock it with meat. What it is I actually do is kill people. But I don’t like the labels associated. You know, killer, contract killer, hit man, assassin. That sort of thing. I did go through this period, or phase I guess you could say, where I thought honesty is the best policy. It’s like a cliche, I know, but it made sense. Until I tried it out. I mean you sit next to someone on the plane and they ask so what do you do. And you say killer, well, they get nervous. Ask to change seats. Believe me, people don’t want honesty. Anyway, I got the job. I had what business people call the requisite skill set for it. My Dad taught me how to shoot when I was a kid. And on the farm there were times when we had to put down an animal. Sick. Injured real bad. That sort of thing. I ended up being who did it. In high school I worked part time for a local detective and learned how to find out things about folks. My college philosophy major equipped me with an existential view about life and a minor in French literature gave me some language tools. After graduation I worked in advertising for awhile. When the market crashed I was out of work, downsized or right sized like they say, just ways of avoiding making it personal. And that’s when the job I have now appeared. I didn’t set out to sell meat. Believe me this was not my plan. And it still makes me... well, my palms sweat at the wrong times. My heart races and I get headaches. Irritable bowel syndrome. High blood pressure too. My therapist has me on Zoloft.