"Life is infinitely stranger than anything the mind could invent."

-Arthur Conan Doyle

" It's raining men, hallelujah",

Fuck. My. Life.

"It's raining men, every specimen,"

I wonder if I will ever heal from this.

"Tall, blonde, dark and lean,"

This is a great opportunity for selective memory to do her thing.

"Rough and tough and strong and mean."

The lead karaoke singer starts swaying her hips in every direction, holding the rusty microphone too close to her mouth until every word she says becomes a jumbled, muffled mess of incomprehensible vowels.

Before I begin to seriously reconsider my line of work, the song finally comes to a stop, giving my ears a well-deserved respite.

I look down at my watch, it indicates 10:11 PM. She was supposed to meet me here eleven minutes ago, and perhaps if she had I would not have had to endure three and half minutes in hell.

"Hello, sweet cheeks," says a young looking blonde-haired boy who has clearly abused the bar tender's generosity. They give away free drinks like their life depends on it here.

The obnoxious blue and green lights reflect on his face and he looks ghoulish for a moment.

I give him a pointed look before turning away, ignoring him. Not getting the message, he continues.

"How do you like your eggs in the morning?" he attempts to sound flirty.

"Unfertilized."

His face falls, but I do not let myself dwell too much on it and watch him retreat to another table. The poor boy would get killed if he ended up with someone like me.

"Hi!" a chipper voice booms behind me.

When I turn, I see none other than wannabe Izora Armstead smiling at me.

"I'm your client!" She offers quickly when she takes in my confused frown.

"You said to meet you here at 10:00 o'clock." I try not to sound as aggravated as I feel. My website clearly states to be on time for appointments.

"I'm so sorry I had you waiting! I just HAD to do this number." she chirps, taking the seat across from me.

She pulls out a stack of papers from her purse and places it on the grimy table. Going through them one by one, she finally pulls out a picture and slides it toward me.

"This is him. His name is Nicolas," she says before going back to her papers.

I look at the tall lean man on the photograph, which I can bet came from a P.I. just be looking at the angle it was taken from.

"This is all the information I have on him. Home address, work address, telephone numbers, favorite restaurants, it's all there." I go through the man's file and see that indeed, everything is there.

"When can you have it done?" she whispers, interlocking her fingers together.

"My turn around time is one week, as per my website." She clearly has not read any of it.

"Great!" She smacks her hands together. "Perfect! Do you need anything else before I go back?" She nods toward the stage where two old men are currently singing, or rather destroying, Def Leppard's Love Bites.

"Yes, full payment up front." I sigh, "That's also on the website."

"Oh right, I'm so sorry!" She retrieves an envelope from her purse and hands it over.

"Thank you. I have everything. You should get an automated message once the job is done." I tuck the envelope in my coat pocket, right next to my Sig.

She says her goodbyes all but runs back to the stage. I down the rest of my brandy and make my way to the exit, glad it did not take longer than it needed to.

For once a client who does not feel the need to give her reasons.

#

knock on the polished mahogany door of Nordic-style mansion three times with my one free hand and stand on the porch. After a brief moment, I hear the familiar footsteps approaching. I look behind me at the well-lit but deserted street of the posh neighborhood, only vaguely noticing that most of the other houses have no lights on. On a Saturday night, at 10:00 PM.

The big door opens with a small creek and in front me appears Vanesa in her pink lace nightie. Yes, you read that correctly. It is "Vanesa with one s", as she keeps reminding everyone.

Her sleek blonde hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail and she wears a bored expression on her perfectly balanced, symmetric little face.

"Come on in," she opens the door wider to let me in and closes it gently behind me.

Each one of Vanesa's movements are carefully calculated. Always.

"Is there any way I could convince you to start coming here at a reasonable hour, Emmalyn?" She asks in a flat voice before motioning for me to hand over my bag.

"To be fair, today's an emergency." I throw my hands up and let them fall back down on my sides.

She pulls out the IDs of my latest victims one by one to examine them.

"You've been busy, I see." She counts twenty-three drivers' licenses and five student IDs. "Let's go. Tell me what's your emergency." She places them back carefully in the bag and motions for me to follow her to the basement.

"I need you to set up Payment Friend on my website." I state matter-of-factly.

She stops mid-step and turns to me.

"You mean PayPal?"

"Right, that." She starts walking again and I follow closely behind her.

"Let me be clear, you want me to set up an online payment service for your Hitman service website?" She sounds a little too sarcastic for my taste.

"I prefer the term Hitwoman, actually, but yes, that is exactly what I'm asking." We begin our descent into her underground office.

You see, Vanesa is a well-known interior decorator for Ottawa's elite. But only by day.

By night, she is a very talent tech wiz who is willing to operate my less than legal website, as long as I provide her with a steady stream of stolen IDs from my victims. I do not have the slightest idea what she does with them, but I have always been curious.

Her silence speaks too loudly and I feel the need to explain myself.

"I need a way to... minimize my contact with clients." A good example of WHY which immediately comes to mind is the Karaoke fiasco that happened yesterday. "By setting up a Paybuddy, I won't have to meet with them at all. Everything will be neatly done online." I have thought this through.

I have a seat on one her black leather couches while she boots up one of the computers.

"You do know that by setting up a PAYPAL account, there will be an online proof of your illicit activities? I know it's none of my business, but I feel compelled to mention that is a bad idea."

"Thank you, Vanesa, but I've already thought of that," I had not thought of that. "And perhaps there is a way to get around this slight hitch. You are creative, come up with something."

"Well, you do your taxes right?"

"Of course I do my taxes! What kind of citizen am I? That you could even ask that baffles me Vanesa." I do not do my taxes.

"So what do you tell the Revenue Agency when you declare your income?"

"That I'm..." I discreetly rake my brain in an effort to find something that will sound at least somewhat believable, "a masseuse?" I barely manage to convince myself as I say it.

"A masseuse?" she scoffs, "A masseuse who makes over 10 grand a week?" she turns to me with a raised eyebrow, evidently unconvinced, "One who offers Happy endings, maybe, but that's also illegal. You haven't been doing your taxes, have you?"

"I've just never really thought about it, I guess." The thought of doing my taxes has never really crossed my mind before today.

"Ok, you need to get that figured out. In the meantime, I can tweak your website so that it looks like you are offering massotherapy services."

"And set up the Bill Companion also?"

"Yes, your PAYPAL should be operational before the end of the week."

"Thank you so much!" I stand up to leave, but she is already hard at work typing on her computer, "I'll just let myself out..."