The Job

            You can tell a lot about a man by his hands. Freddy Cesano’s hands were hard, rough and calloused like a field laborer’s. Freddy was not, however, a field worker, nor was he a farmer, carpenter, or mechanic.

            Freddy was a weapon, a gun in the hands of the very rich and absolutely scorned. 

            Freddy wasn’t much to look at. He wasn’t a big man, being neither especially tall nor especially bulky, as many in his profession were. He understood that his stature made him less intimidating, less impressive upon first glance to both potential employers and the victims of his employment. That’s why he let the immensity of his reputation make the impression. His name in the business was flawless. Not a single screw-up that anyone knew about, and only one that had ever actually occurred. Freddy had made one hell of a mess once, but that was a mess that had been cleaned up. 

            Freddy was the best. He knew it.

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