A stranger knocked at my door one day. I asked him his name. "Call me Mr. X," he said. He offered to take me out to lunch. He said he was a friend of a friend. I was hungry so I said yes.
We went to the Village to a deli I'd never been to before. The food was delicious, the best I'd had in a long time. The man who wanted me to call him Mr. X ate quietly and stared at the other people enjoying their lunches. They all looked away when he met their eyes because he had a stone cold face. They were afraid.
He didn't eat much.
I asked him what he did for a living and he told me he killed people. I laughed at him. The food was settling pleasantly in my stomach and I was feeling fine. I wasn't afraid. "I don't believe you," I said. "You will," he replied.
I thought he was joking. I decided to play along. I asked him how he'd gotten his job. He smiled and told me his SAT scores had been very high. I noticed his teeth were very white, very even. I persisted. "How does someone get into that line of work?" I said. "I knew people," he said. "They thought I'd be good at this kind of thing, turns out they were right. I'm damned good." I glanced at his hands as he wiped them carefully with a paper napkin. They were soft and unblemished. Hard to believe they were the hands of a killer.
The clock on the wall showed ten minutes to three. I had a date with a beautiful girl that night and wanted to do some things first. I thanked him for lunch and said I had to go. "Not just yet," he said. He asked me if I remembered a girl called Cecily, Cecily Moon. "Of course," I said. "A sweet kid." Mr. X frowned. He explained that Cecily wasn't too happy with the way I'd treated her, that there had been an incident. I recalled the incident. It had been unpleasant, but she had asked for it. Mr. X looked very unhappy. "Sometimes people do crazy things to get satisfaction," said Mr. X. "Unfortunately for you, she found me."
He shot me twice in the groin as I sat there. It took me a moment to realize what he�d done. Then I heard myself screaming with a voice I'd grown out of when I was 13. He regarded me dispassionately as the blood spurted from between my legs, soaking my pants and dripping on the floor. Now other people were screaming. "Call the cops!" Someone yelled. Mr. X swept the room with his gaze and it got real quiet.
He rose slowly from the table and grabbed me by the hair, forcing me up. "She made me promise," he said, "that you'd suffer for what you did." The Deli had big glass windows. He shoved me through one of them. He followed, moving cautiously to avoid the broken glass. I lay writhing on the sidewalk. A jagged piece of glass protruded from my cheek, nailing my tongue to my jaw. I couldn't speak. Mr. X knelt on the ground beside me and pulled the shining blade from my face, freeing my tongue. "Please..." I sobbed. I began to choke on my own blood. I felt cold metal pressing against my stomach.
He leaned in close and whispered in my ear: "When you get to hell, tell him Mr. X sent you."
He fired again and the bullet tore through my spine. Blood exploded from my mouth. He fired again.. That was the last thing I remember.
Until now.
I wished I'd believed him. This is not a happy place. They all know him here, the man I call Mr. X.
© 2002 by Craig Snyder