With a low grunt, I gave a final shove before the stiff corpse slid into the fire. A low crackle emitted from the blaze and then silence followed. Like when you throw a damp log into a campfire. In mere hours, there would be nothing left of Bruce Gilligan but a fine ivory ash and a lingering stench of burnt flesh. The crematory chamber’s steel door slammed shut with a thunderous clank that echoed vehemently around the desolate room. One more step, then my job was done.
In all honesty, my job is pretty simple.  In fact, it can be dissected into five steps: track, snatch, kill, burn, paycheck. Dangerous, yes, but simple. There aren’t a lot of  benefits besides the money. I don’t get dental care or paid vacation, but it’s never going to run out of work. People love killing people. It’s primal instinct. Even more so, people love not having to do things themselves, so they’ll leap at a chance to have someone kill for them. Another benefit is that I
never have to worry about getting caught. Fortunately, I have a secretary who likes to think he’s my boss, and he lets me use his crematorium on the condition that  I cook some dead spouses too.
However, there are some big cons to the profession of choice. For starters, most of the clients are a total pain in the ass. They try to argue price with me as if there’s a reasonable price on murder. Some clients can’t get it through their thick skulls that they’re not only paying for death, but for cleanup and a vow of silence. It’s a deluxe package deal. Don’t want to pay my entire price? Then they have to dump the body themselves. Another big downer is all my boss covers is the crematory. If I want a shiny new knife set, I buy the knife set out of my own pocket. Not to mention that efficient cleaning supplies isn’t dirt cheap. It’s a hardknock life.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” a voice said as I walked to the front office. It was gruff and scratchy, the kind of voice young girls are raised to run from. The voice led me to an old client of mine, Zee, who also happens to be the kind of man that young girls should run from. Dark, patchy stubble overlaid his sunken in cheeks, failing to hide his oily skin. A loose strand of greasy bleach blond hair hung in his eyes, a real pet peeve of mine. Refraining from reaching out and ripping off the lock of hair, I shot him a counterfeit smile and nodded.
“Yeah. You got the money?” I questioned in an unadorned tone as I held out the palm of my hand, my blood spattered boot tapping with impatience. Giving a sluggish nod, Zee pulled a crumpled check out of his front pocket and placed it in my calloused hand.
“And you’re sure he’s dead?”
“Not at all. Only stabbed a knife through his trachea and threw him in a fire. He’s probably alive and kicking it in Mexico.” Sarcasm was laced in my reply while I examined the wrinkled check, my eyes rolling for what seemed like the fiftieth time that day. Some of my clients seem to have the bank account of Bill Gates but an IQ equal to my shoe size. Zee just shook his head, mumbling a bland ‘thanks man’ before leaving the old building. The audacity of some people often amazes me; I constantly find myself wondering how somehow could be so rude to the ruthless killer that they hired. It’s like they’re putting a giant red stamp that says ‘KILL ME NEXT’ front and center on their forehead.
“Don’t kill ‘em yet, Dally-boy. He’s a main client.” My boss, CJ, called out from behind me, a smug smile on his face, “besides you got a little grandma to toast before you leave. I already warmed the second chamber, ‘cause I’m so nice, of course.  Oh, and Jay called. He would love to discuss some business with you once your chores are done.”
“Of course, sweetie, do you want me to fetch you a glass of water and a mint while I’m at it?” CJ laughed at my snide comment.
“Actually,-” he started with a small smirk.
“I’d kill you before I acted as your personal assistant.”
“But I’m your-”
“Secretary. You take my phone calls and clean up after me.”
CJ groaned and shook his head, accepting defeat as I exited the room with a grin. Walking into the morgue, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck raise. This room was my least favorite. Not because it’s filled with corpses, I’ve grown accustomed to that. Simply because it’s absolutely freezing. Someone could catch death in here. Figuratively speaking, of course. Shivers raced down my spine and caused my body to jolt as I approached the body bag with hunched shoulders. This was the worst part; The moving of the body. Bodies that have been dead and chilled for too long bother me because whenever I try to cram them in their Fedex box, I can feel their fragile bones snap.
Poor Granny had been dead for a few days, her creased thin lips turned to a soft blue-grey. Small and frail, I could tell she wasn’t going to make the transition from bag to box in one piece. Taking a deep breath, I went and grabbed a cheap cardboard box from the corner of the icy room before mentally preparing myself. I know it shouldn’t be hard for a serial killer to move a body, but hey, even I have my limits. Want me to snap a living person’s neck? Cool, give me $20 first. Want me to snap a dead grandma’s wrist? Haha. Ha. Ha. No.  Anyways, Granny made it into the box with little effort, as she would have weighed 80 pounds sopping wet. Unfortunately for my gag reflex, she didn’t make it before I felt her elbow fracture in my hand.
My stomach lurched at the sound. It reminded me of Rice Krispies cereal popping after the milk is added. I felt bile brush the back of my throat as I positioned her in the makeshift casket, burning and leaving a foul aftertaste in my mouth. Struggling to hold my breakfast back from spilling onto the pavement, I carried the box to the crematory chambers. Once I swiftly slid her into the second slot, the crackle returned as warmth spread through my body and eased my goosebumps. This room has always been comforting to me. It was warm and desolate, no CJ to bicker at me or client to nag at me for  lower prices.  Just the warm fires and a dusty folding chair with some outdated magazines.
“DALLON JAMES BLACKWELL- GET YOUR LANKY, BLOODTHIRSTY, UH, BUTT- YEAH, BUTT- UP HERE.” Rolling my eyes, I left the burning lady and trotted my way back to the front office with an annoyed expression. CJ was sitting at his desk, a tall man towering before him. Jay Bozeman looked a little scary. He stood a whopping 6’6”, two inches more than myself, and he used an array of tattoos to cover his olive skin. Unfortunately, his tough appearance was ruined whenever he opened his mouth. I don’t know if there was some horrific helium balloon incident, but I have never heard a man with such a squeaky voice. His three year old daughter, who was currently clinging to his leg behind him, almost had a deeper voice than him.
“Hi, Jay. Hi, Amelia.” I greeted as I gave a small wave to the bashful toddler. A rosy blush crept onto her cheeks as she smiled, hiding her face into her father’s loose fitting jeans. Jay chuckled, placing his hand atop her head before looking at me.
“Sorry for bringing her, Mom’s stuck in traffic.” He explained with his god awful voice. I struggled to hold back a snort as he continued to squeak at me, “Anyway, I got a guy for you. Made the mistake of messing with one of my buddies. His name’s Zach. Zach Martin. I have more to discuss, but since Amy’s here I’m just going to leave you with the basics.”
CJ handed me a manilla folder with a few sheets of printer paper in it, a somber look on his face. Checking over some of the papers, I gave a solemn nod before returning my gaze back to Jay.
“Yeah, I can do this. No biggie. Just give me a ring later, Amelia looks hungry.” Amelia giggled at my words, peeking at me from behind Jay’s long legs. Jay shook his head at her, a smile on his face, “C’mon, let’s go get dinner. How does chicken nuggets sound to you? I’ll talk to you later, Dallon. Bye, CJ!”
CJ gave a small wave as a send off as I watched the pair exit. Amelia’s head bobbed enthusiastically as she gripped her her dad’s large hand, skipping into the parking lot. With a hefty sigh, I looked back down to the folder in my hands. My plan for a relaxing night in had almost followed through. Almost. I had planned on going home, taking a bath, scrubbing the dried blood out from under my nails, and calling it a night. Alas, my bath and clean nails would have to hold off. For now, it was time to begin the five previously mentioned steps, starting with step one: the tracking.