The Random Unfinished Stories
Of Frank Miller, there was one thing I was absolutely certain. He was dead. I'd stood over him myself and watched impassively as the last few seconds of his life disappeared. He wasn't the first, and he would definitely not be the last person I'd kill. It was a job. I clocked in same as any other coffee addict office lackey, just more unusual hours. Better pay. I was almost at a place in my life where I could give up my life of crime and retire to some small island.
So then tell me why, as I stand at this proverbial crossroads in my life that I see Mr. Miller's face posted on the goddamned sign! Well, not the sign. More like the corner of 5th and Acre Street, right by a seedy electronics store. Frank wasn't just smiling, laughing, he was running for mayor! They would demand a refund, of that I knew. I could hear them now, "What do you mean, he didn't stay dead? That's not called killing you idiot, that's the equivalent of tax collection."
Other than totally decimating my street cred, I had to kill a man I've killed before. How messed up is that?