You know what I hate more than anything else in the world? Entitlement and bigotry.

You know what my second biggest hate is? When work and life cross paths.

Hello there. You don't know me yet, but I'm the man that'll turn this from a cute little high school rom-com to the nightmare of Freddy Krueger. You can call me Red.

Now as a psychotic mass murderer and one of the most dangerous men on earth, you'd expect to see me struggling to escape the FBI or maybe a joint taskforce of MI6 and CIA, but no. I'm sending money to my ex wife for child support payments. Fuck this.

Fuck all this god damned fucking shit that I have to do for a bitch that left because my job was too dangerous or horrible, claiming that I was insane and a psychopath.

What does she know anyways!? I'm plenty sane! Ok, so I do get payed to kill people, but so do soldiers. I'm just much better at my job!

"Sir, we've got all the information we can get on him. Do you want Spectre to bring the files over?" The radio buzzed. These guys have been on me all morning about one simple task I gave them a month ago and now they're finally at the point where they have something.

Typical.

"No, I hate Spectre, just email it over." I told them, turning back to my paperwork.

I hate paperwork. It's like torture that you can't grow immune to. Like a hot iron for your brain. Like hydrochloric acid for your mind! Like, like... Well, I'm out of metaphors for how much I hate paperwork, but you get it.

The thing I'd like to do is over, the last time is gone. My partner and I won't be working together again. Because I'm going to kill him.

•••

"It was ONE time, dude!" I calmly told Greggor. The guy holds way too many grudges. "I didn't get paid either! Just as upsetting for me. I mean, do you know how much my ex takes in child support?"

"I don't care."

"So cruel! I thought we were friends!"

"We're not." He told me in that dark and grim voice he always used. "This is just business."

It was a struggle not to laugh as I got into the car. "Isn't it always?"

Then the line clicked dead.

"That prick hung up on me..." I muttered, taking out my phone to start another call. "Did you get what you needed?"

"Of course I did." Spectre chuckled in a tone that reminded me of daggers on a chalkboard strapped to my head. "I always get what I need for an operation."

"Yea yea, whatever. Just get me what I need, ok?"

"Anything for a friend."

"We're not friends!" I snapped. "You're creepy as fuck and I don't do creepy as fuck. I'm paying you and that's the end of it. Just a job."

He was quiet for long enough that I thought he hung up on me as well, but just as I was ready to freak out I heard a reply.

"Yes sir, just business."

I always hated how impersonal Greggor was with his work, but this is the one time I'd agree with him. Anything with Spectre is business, and limited business at that.

•••

Sometimes it was comforting to just walk down the street, dressed to impress all the idiots that saw you walk by. It was enough to make your way through the neighborhood, waving to the kiddos coming home from school.

A small group of teens ran by and I just felt drawn to the little bastards. Was it the giant in the group, cool and calculated? Maybe the little twerp clinging to that pretty boy. But then my eyes locked on a boy in a green hoodie, leading the kids over to the house I had been watching for about an hour now.

My lips tore into a massive grin, a chuckle escaping as I saw the object of my affection walk by into the building I'd be removing from the map.

Now here I am, standing outside of the home of Nicolas Greggor, the most dangerous killer in the world. Here I am to make a statement.