The Marriage Counselor

[Writing Prompt] As a side gig, you work as the best hitman in the city. One day, two Mafia bosses hire you to kill the other. Not wanting a gang war, you resort to your main profession: Marriage Counselor

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Your choices make or mar you.

I don't know if that saying already exists, or I just made it up, but that's what it is. And for me, the choice to leave school and hone my shooting skill on Grandpa's shooting range 13 years ago was one that had trusted me through rings of emotions and situations.

Exhilaration. Guilt. Happiness. Joy. Pain. Danger. Excitement. Love. Sex. And everything in between.

Of course, no one knew I was going to become a very skilled, highly-in-demand, most wanted hitman. No one except me, that is. Years or boredom in school and successes in FPS games made me aware of the fact that my skills couldn't be wasted behind a cubicle or in the ER.

So why didn't I join the military?

I was sexually attracted to money. I call it benjamin-sexual. It'll become popular someday, but in the meantime, just know that working under a specific governmental unit limited my funding. Even though I knew it'd be risky to go rogue and offer my services on the black market, the pay would be amazing and the thrill, divine.

"That'll be fifty dollars. Send the next couple in," I said as I watched the couple walk out.

"Dammit!" I gasped, kicking the table and recoiling in pain. This was not how I planned my life. Of course, this was my 'main' job, my front for the 'other' job. Hell'\s Kitchen Marriage Counselor by Day, Hitman per excellence by night.

You know, some Batman type thing.

I didn't expect to use it as my main job.

So why was I behind a f*ckin' table? It all began last week when I got two jobs. Both to be executed the very next day. I receive my jobs by a secure firewalled email, which if traced, would lead to an island in the Pacific.

Both were from two rival Mafias in the area: The Poppies and The Sicilian Mafia. It was crazy that they still ran operations in this area - in this time and age, but I didn't judge my employers. I just did the job.

But I couldn't do this one.

The current climate was uneasy. The Poppies were up-and-coming, and the only way they could thrive and make it big was to take out the more established, well connected, and relatively more powerful Sicilian Mafia. Their only option was to carry out an attack that would effectively throw the Sicilians into a state of disorder and provide a cover for them to carry ut other debilitating attacks to the Sicilian operations.

They gave me the job to kill the head of the Sicilian Mafia in Hell's Kitchen.

The Sicilians did not appreciate the thorn in their side, and brought the contract of executing the Poppies head to squash the 'revolution'.

It was a suicide mission. Not only would I start a bloody war, but there was also the risk of getting caught in the crossfire. I graciously (or ungraciously) pulled out of the whole thing. Temporarily

In the meantime, I had to handle Mr. and Mrs. Smith, whose problems were always settled around Money and Sex.

"Good Afternoon, how can I be of... Oh wait, you're both here because of Money, Sex and... that's about it, isn't it?"

They both looked at me, shocked.

"Okay, Mrs. Smith. You first. Did you try the 'diplomatic' approach I gave three days ago?"

"Y-yes. Well, I do try, but it's just, I don't like his insatiable appetite. He doesn't show affection or care for anyone. All he wants to do is mate like a wild bull in heat," she blurted, looking at her husband accusingly.

"Because all you want to do is ask for money. Ooh, my hair. Ooh, my nails. Ooh, designer clothes. You earn 300 a month to take care of yourself; I have to handle the kids, the bills, and all that! Why can't you spend your own money on yourself?" her husband fired back.

"Well, you earn more so..."

"For crying out loud, can you both just stop?!" I shouted all of a sudden, glaring at both. 'I've gotten tired of you, coming for the past 6 months with all your whining sh!t. Are you guys ready to fix this up, or do you want a divorce?"

"N-no, we want to be together," Mrs. Smith blurted. I looked at her husband.

"Mr. Smith, I don't think I need to remind you that it takes two to tango. When I asked that question, I needed an answer from both of you," I said, glaring at him.

"O-of course I want to make things work," he mumbled.

"Say. I. Like. You. Mean. It."

"I want us to be together!"

"Good, so here's what you're BOTH gonna do. Set out an estimate of all the bills to pay, and share it amongst yourselves. Do that now! Also, Mr. Simth, you're handling the kids' school fees. Mrs. Smith, the grocery and cleaning supplies. Of course, these are interchangeable. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir!" they both said, before turning to each other, shocked.

"Mrs. Smith, I know you want to feel a bit of love and you want your husband to spoil you, but take it easy on his pocket while;e you're at it. Mr. Smith, it is your obligation to make sure she IS happy, no matter what it takes! Your obligation! Your civic duty! And for f*cks safe, keep your damn third leg under control!"

"Y-yes sir,"

"You are both to contribute to the recreation of the household - plan vacations, regular camping trips, visits to the amusement park, all of that stuff. And one more thing, don't ever argue in front of your kids, got it?"

"Y-yes."

They left awkwardly, and I never thought I'd see them again. But two weeks later, they were back, beaming like newlyweds.

"From the look of things, you both listened to my advice," I said, trying my best not to smile, hold their hands and skip down the street.

"Yes we did, and it's been so amazing..."

I half-heartedly listened to their love rants as I thought about what I'd done that morning. I'd secretly planted bombs at all known hideouts of both parties. What was the use of the counsel I gave others if I couldn't say the same for myself?

When the explosives went off, and the dust settled, someone would definitely trace all this to me. At that point, I would be more than happy to finish off the remnant of two of Hell's Kitchen's worst plagues.

Would I be made, or marred?

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Photo by Benjamin Rascoe on Unsplash