Snow White must die

Who am I?

I live alone on the top floor in the 4th story of a rental tenement in some small-town somewhere in the Northeast of the USA. I definitely don´t want to live there forever. There are more beautiful places, sunnier places, that is where I would love to live, of course, in the best case together with some hot chick. My parents named me Frank, some 42 years ago. The neighbors know me as Mister Miller; the old lady with the freaky dog always only calls me The Man with the Hat. I always wear this hat, though I defiantly take it off on sunny days, though I as well take it off, when the shit hits the fan. I obediently obey my business partners under the name of Fred Winter. I chose that pseudonym some ten years ago, when I became a killer.

My pastimes? You won´t believe it… cooking! Anyone thinking that some contract killer wouldn´t be able to serve any fish sticks appropriate to the species, should visit me in my kitchen! And anyone who thinks he never ate dog should just surprise a Chinese cook on the job.

Another pastime is to tell people lies about my true life, my true identity. This is a sure sign of having a lot of fantasy that I put to paper in my spare time. Of course, I´ve always dreamt of a bestseller, those score like a cheap whore in some residential home for men, with no other intention then to finally retire in Miami, together with my hot chick of course.

On the weekends, I drive the 40 miles with my car into the big city jungle. There is one late night dive, where everyone who is special meets. But most of the ones, meeting there late night, just think, they are something very special. Hot styled chicks stalk on high heels, on their forever quest for the Mr. Right, the one with the thick wallet. But usually, they just run into some bragger, highly indebted, that hauls them home to nevertheless have the night at least end with some kind of sex. When I am really lucky, then I am one of these dazzlers, passing as a banker, that is going to fly to the Bahamas next week with his private jet, and the damn little cute beast gives me some blowjob in my car. When I am even luckier, I get a job. Not referring to any harmless oral sex here, though this can of course have some fatal consequences, too. During the Clinton era, it was one plain blowjob that terminated America´s last chance for any functioning democracy.

Saturday, September 11th, 2004

It is shortly past ten p.m. and I enter the nightclub. The owner of this very dump is Will, a black man, I know him from those days back yonder, from my early days. He already had some criminal tendencies; he was arrested on and off, but always got off with some slap on the wrist. Will or “Wild Willy” as we used to call him, never spent too long in jail. By the way, I myself personally never spent any time behind the bars, but the 12 years I spent in the army, came down to the same. I signed up in my younger years, to serve my country that way. There, in the army, you definitely learn to shoot. There you defiantly learn precisely to kill.

I sit down at the bar, keep my hat on, order a double bourbon on ice and ask for Will. The waitress, Carmen, grabs the phone, she is definitely easy on the eyes. One minute later, my old pal shakes my hand. “Hi Frank!” He welcomes me and when being undisturbed, he states: “Snow White is dead. They found the corpse in the forest, big time headlines in the newspapers. The dead woman in the deadwood, matches somewhat, right?” “Additionally, her last name was Woodman. Abigail Woodman, 22 years and unmarried, I read it in the papers. But why then Snow White?” “Because she was that cute. Here, your $17,000.” Will pushes my share over. “Thank you, Will. “Five up, Frank. Just come over next week, I ´ve got a new client, he contacted me yesterday.” “Well, hopefully not someone being interested to get rid of Wild Willy,” I allow myself to joke. Will laughs back. “Your humor is even blacker than my skin, Frank. “The crass contrast to that, the snow-white cocaine that you always huckster, now then my dear old chap.”

Saturday, September 18th, 2004

It is shortly past ten p.m. and I enter the nightclub. The owner of the dump is Will and he already expected me. “Frankie, old chap, I got something for you.” We sit down at a table in some quiet corner and I actually take my hat off. Will gets started. “The guy was called Boomerang and passed puberty probably some 45 years ago. Must be someone high on top of some decent American corporation, producing weapons. Thus, he lives rather drawn back and wants nothing to do with any public. “Probably, he isn´t standing up to his job.” “None of our interests. Our interest is what he pays, and he pays a five number sums.” “I haven´t ever worked for less, man. For the bucks I would only shoot this bitch of a dog of my neighbor, this thing really sucks big-time with its barking. To make up for it, I would serve it to the old lady as a hot dog that really suits its name. The main dish would be some nice mushroom soup that she would definitely not survive. But well, where we´ve been? Who am I supposed to blow to kingdom come?” “That´s exactly what this Monsieur Boomerang will tell you in person. Tomorrow at three you will have your audience. Only accept cash, ok?” I take a sip off my glass. Sure, it´s ok.

Sunday, September 19th, 2004

Around three in the afternoon. The pompous villa lies a little off track and immediately attracts attention. As much as the name plaque, not to be overlooked. B. Boomerang. I ring the doorbell and wait kind of excited in front of the door. A hussy, somewhere around 30 opens the door. “You´re surely Mr. Winter?” asks the broad, really attractively dressed; I have to acknowledge, after some high-speed full body scans. Only her visage could be prettier. Who is that chick, somehow looking familiar? His daughter? His affair? His wife? His housemaid? Or just the cleaning woman? It must be either his daughter or his affair. Or his wife, the housemaid and cleaning woman as one.

“Are you Mr. Winter now?” Forced to hear the question a second time. I nod, wordless and enter the house. We traipse through some rooms to the terrace, there; I am welcomed by Mr. Boomerang, pretty well conserved for his age, actually. “Hi Mr. Boomerang, Fred Winter.” We shake hands. “Ben Boomerang. Ok, Mr. Winter, straight away. My wife Kylie was murdered a few days ago. I can imagine, who it was and don´t ever want to see the person alive. “Hear ya. Okay, no problem. The price. One person twenty thousand! Two person´s thirty eight, three persons fifty thousand.” “No, eighteen thousand for one and I count on you.” Eighteen isn´t too bad, fifteen percent for Will. The last job via this Italian with his theocratic tendencies brought some 2,000 more, but well, you shouldn´t brag during a recession and while forced to handle all the concurrence from the former East. That´s business

“You can count on me, Mr. Boomerang, you can count on me. Eighteen is ok, but cash, please.” My new business partner excuses himself, shortly leaves the room and then hands the bundle of notes over. I count them and am definitely content. Then we shake hands again, the contract, a done deal. Ben Boomerang directs me to the living room. “I show you a picture of my wife.” He takes a framed photo from the shelve and shows it to me. “That is your wife Kylie?” I take my hat off and scratch my head. “Yes, exactly, we were just freshly married in Europe some three weeks ago. In Paris, the city of love. Kylie was her pet name, no one else but me called her that way. The change of personal status and name were not transmitted to the county yet, thus, the authorities were only informed somewhat later about the marriage, of course, and I informed them.

I study the photo of Abigail Woodman, as if I would have never seen it before. “Mmmh, who could have killed her now?” I ask him. “I am rather sure, her ex. He was allied with her for two months. “They married fast. Who is the ex?” “A hot-blooded Italian from the south.” That is right, as right as rain. But he only hijacked her and it was me, shooting her. With a pistol. In the forest. The dead woman in the deadwood. The little mobster couldn´t probably find any better location that fast, to have her casted in concrete. According to him, he would rather shit his pants than kill his ex girl and thus consulted Will.

“Yes, I am rather sure it was him, the one, trying to blackmail me. Right after our return from Europe, this Italian high jacked my wife and wanted all my money, wanted to absolutely impoverish me, but I didn´t pay. I didn´t inform the police, they don´t know anything about the high jacking, even today. “So, it´s the Italian?” “Find out, whether this jerk did it. If so, kill him. But when he passed this job, then grab the wop at his balls, and drag his cock as long as some spaghetti, till he spits out the name of the killer.”

Saturday, September 25th, 2004

It is shortly past ten p.m. and I enter the nightclub. The owner of the dump is Will and everything is due to him. We sit down at some table. “How´s it going, Frank? Job done?” “Not yet, Will, but tonight. Here, your $2,700.” I push over his share. “But it is really a shit job, Will.” “Hey, it cannot be that bad, right? Where is your humor? Are you something like a rabbit that I asked to dig some tunnel through the Rockies? “No, man, even worse. This time it is a really damn lousy shit job. But I´m going to do it.” “Ok, Frank, you are outmost dutiful, reliable and never fail. Who should know better then me? C´mon, I´ll buy you for a drink.” Will whistles for the waitress that serves the double bourbon immediately. But neither the free drink, nor the hottie Carmen help to better my mood. Will takes care, but I would rather beat him up brutally, to then steal his health insurance card, that way the paramedics wouldn´t try to drive him to any hospital in the first place.

Sunday, September 26th, 2004

About three a.m., time to hit the sack. But instead, I drive with my car close to the place, where I shot Abigail “Kylie” Woodman, our Snow White. A dark parking lot is the terminal stop of that drive. I get out of the car and walk deep into the forest. I am proud. That I dare to make that step. In some minutes I will lie dead on the ground. Surely not, because I´d be any suicidal, but because I am determined to do my job well. Because I am dutiful and reliable. The pistol that got Kylie into eternity will get me there, too. Maybe some dog walker will find my corpse? Someone collecting mushrooms? Well, someone sure will. Then, I won´t live on the top floor, but somewhere completely else. Somewhere underground, buried in some cemetery.

Who am I?

I live in some really great villa somewhere in sunny Florida. I sold the nightclub some three months later, after someone found the corpse of Frank in the forest. Karen Woodman meanwhile, did inherit all the millions of her father, being more than dead sick and tied to his bed, when she contacted me, to get rid of her sister, that was never ever married anyway, by the way. Snow White must die, she said to me, ice-cold. Her jealousy for her beautiful sister and the greed for the money washer motive. The police were sure about Frank, being the killer, that planned a blackmail that went wrong and then killed himself.

Everything was staged. The name plaque on the Villa Woodman was shortly and temporarily changed. A good old business partner of mine was allowed to play Mr. Boomerang. Karen Woodmen, my boss, the lady at the counter and Emilio, the Colombian drug carrier, the money greedy Italian ex. All persons, where I was sure, that Frank couldn´t know them. And I was sure, that Frank was reliable and dutiful and did every job 100 percent even, when it hurts. Regarding his health, Frankie should have rather become President. Since Kennedy, no one has gotten that severely caught, even if Lewinsky would have bitten harder.

Karen Woodman paid me well. From now on: No jobs passed out to any contract killers, no drug business, and no crooked dealings. No, nothing anymore in that direction. I lead a respectable life, together with my former employee Carmen. who I married meantime. Not in Europe though, but we already married. In some small chapel somewhere in the States. And this time, no lie.

Snow White must die – Epilog

Who am I?

I live in some really great villa somewhere on this planet. It was no problem to pay the contract killer, because Will is dead rich. This time he himself was the victim, well, that´s life. He was always a mean rat; he had to have so many skeletons in the closet that you could hardly count them at all. His scrutiny was the basis of his huge fortune. Okay, he bettered himself somewhat in the end, but he already bunkered money big times, without end.

I got myself a completely new identity, and I´m not reacting to the name Carmen at all, ever. And when someone in the bar whistles for me and orders a drink, then I do not feel addressed at all. My very high consumption of cocaine lead the new pet name: Snow White …

The Evil Within

God sees everything, preached the unmarried Joshua Black with all passion to his church. This congreation constisted of 544 churchmen. Sad, but true, only some 30 worshipers found their way to his Sunday sermons at ten a.m. Pastor Black was asking himself ever so often: And how many of these few people are nothing but hypocrites? Who leads a double life? No one can read another´s thoughts. God only knows what goes on inside of his creatures.

He was sure that Grandma Kowalski, an exceptional and spry 93 yearold, was a god-fearing and therefore did not belong to the fraction of hypocrites. For the preacher, hypocrites were all the people that pretended to be Christians, but whose deeds were not in accord with the Christian belief. They were like wolves in sheep´s clothing. A regular church or sermon and a necklace with a cross did not turn anyone into a Christian at all. For God, what humans do when no one is watching is more important. God is all-knowing, because God is omnipresent.

Pastor Joshua Black came from a bigger town, about 300 miles away from Springfield. There, he first studied three semesters of medicine, until he finally found God and the true belief due to God´s mercy and thus became a dominie. Some one and a half years before, he moved into the village and overtook the church administrative office because his predecessor, Reverend Joe Weaver, went into retirement.

On Christmas more of the churchmen actually showed up and participated in the mass, but one was never ever seen there. As opposed to all other church visitors, his sins were only too obvious. Perry Hobbs moved to Springfield about six months ago and stole peace from the village. He was freshly divorced, and was accused of having nearly beaten his first wife to death. His recent partner, Janet Tanner, was constantly beaten. And not only one time. Everybody in the village knew that he also constantly abused his new partner´s 13 year old daughter. And no one in the village ever interfered or did anything to stop it… yet.

After the mass, the 39 years old servant of the Lord normally first went to the tavern to smear his dried out throat with two or three beers. He loved to hang out with Major Murphy and Sheriff Collister who loved to discuss criminal cases and ficticious crimestories. Collister always confessed to the pastor that, if he were not being a policeman, he would teach this damn swine of a man Hobbs a tough lesson. A very tough lesson, actually. But he only confessed that to the Reverend and the Major, and thus it was a shared secret.

Hobbs was nothing but a thorn in the conservative Major´s flesh as well. This guy was not meant to belong into their honorable community. Additianally, Hobbs´ stepdaughter was his daughter. This secret never became public either. But some years ago, Murphy did actually confess to pastor Black. Janet Tanner was a woman that Major Murphy had an affair with, though he was married at this time.

Perry Hobbs had long not been seen for a morning pint. He had to drink his beer somehwere else, either at home or outside on a park bench, near the historical monument, when the innkeeper Oliver expelled him from the pub. Oliver was really fed up with that gadfy, that provoced the other guests, started fights and never payed his tippe shell. So far, he owed some 2000 dollars to the clubowner for drinks and smashed up inventory. Hobbs, being out of work, could never think of reducing his debts. The enourmous consumation of alcohol and dissatisfaction with his life formed a vicious circle.

On a Monday morning, some five days before Christmas Eve, the number of inhabitants of the village was lowered by one. It was not Grandma Kowalski, the village elder, that left them. A pedestrian found Perry Hobbs lying dead in the creek.

Today, shortly after Christmas

I sit alone at my kitchen table and I´ve just finished my breakfast. I could take one more cup of coffee. There is a knock on my door. I hardly have ever any visitors so early. It will surely be Collister. I was well prepared for that occasion.

I open the door and he is the caller.
“May I?”
“Of course.”
We go to the kitchen and I offer a chair to my guest.
“I have the morning off today and I thought why not stop by the parson, the one who always breakfasts so very alone. And a good opportunity for some further discussion about crimes and criminalist sensory.”
“Coffee?” I ask.
Collister nods, dumb. I take a clean cup and pour hot coffee from the pot and join him at the table.
“It is about Hobbs, right?” I am not really asking that at all – I know that it is about Hobbs.
“Yes, exactly. Perry Hobbs died on Sunday, the 18th of December, at about midnight. Death by drowning.”
“A silly accident,” I say after a short silense.
“That´s about the size of it. But concerning Hobbs´ case, there is something more.”
“Like exactly what?”
The police officer pours some milk into his cup. I hand him a spoon.
“When the corpse was examined, they found …”
“A lot alcohol,” is my fast explanation.
“This would explain an accident, a boozer falling in the creek. No, they found benzodiazepine.”
“Benzodia…?” I ask stupidly as I put my right hand into my pocket and play nervously with the little bottle.
Collister focuses on the cup of coffee with sharp eyes.
“It is a narcotic, an anestethic. You can also find it to be psychotropic. Why did Hobbs take this drug? Who prescribed it for him? A doctor did not in any case. Where did this drug come from?”
“Well … good question.”
“By the way, knockout drops contain benzodiazepine as well. And even stranger, why didn´t we find this pharmaceutical in his place?”
I deliberate on this and look around in the room.
“Well, we can possibly think that he first got drugged and then …”
Collister takes a careful sip.
“Coffee tasting strange?”
“It must be the holy water,” is my answer by keeping a straight face.
“Our Mr. Preacher makes jokes! You should do that in church, and then more will attend the sermon!”
“The sermon is no comedy show and the Bible a serious matter. This holy book is the mirror, how dirty or clean you are in front of the eyes of God. Self delusion does not function in this case at all. The one who does not take the Bible seriously is stupid. It is all about where you will spend eternity – in heaven or hell.”
“I do not believe in any eternity at all, and I do not believe in any God either, not in any that lets evil happen. I do not believe in any God, that has people in the poor countries die from famine either.”
“A way bigger catastrophe is to stand by without acting. There is a study that makes clear that the money of the seven richest people in the world would be enough to abolish all hunger worldwide.”
“I do not believe in any God that has criminals go without punishment.”
“That is wrong!” I react with a sharp voice. “What goes around comes around. We reap what we sow. It is all simply a question of time.”
“I am really not sure about that. I cannot believe in any God that I cannot see, but who never overlooks anything himself. For me and my court, only proof counts. I do believe in right and wrong.”
“And in the fine fragile line between that,” I add.
Collister carefully takes another sip and says: “One who believes in God cannot deny the existence of the devil.”
“Of course not, the devil is real. He is called Satan, or Lucifer, and was long ago the most beautiful angel to be found in all of heaven. After the creation of Adam and Eve, God demanded that all the angels worship humans, but Satan refused to. The humans should worship him, not the other way around. Satan wanted to be like God. He wanted to climb up the skies and sit on the thrown next to the Almighty. But because of his pride and, Satan became a fallen angel. Since then, he projects all his hatred, jealousy and pain onto us humans, because he got driven out and alienated by us from his holiness, and happiness, while being amongst all angels in heaven.”
“Ho-hum,” Collister moaned, being rather tired and bored.
“Angels are spiritual beings. The devil is the father of all lies that attacks our mind. And all our thoughts get influenced by this, which triggers emotions, that again, have nothing but a bad influence on our deeds. Satan tries by all available means to make the human body the object of sin. One can definitely say that Satan is the spirit of deception. Bad people are obsessed by such demons and turn into criminals. By killing felons, you cannot eliminate these forces of evil either. Jesus did exorcise demons. There are legions of fallen angels und if they were visible, they would darken the sun.”
The sheriff looked at me unbelievingly. Unimpressed I kept on talking.
“Someone who loves God obeys his creator. Every human was equipped with free will by God; the fall of mankind in the Garden of Eden shows that explicitly. Either you follow what God said, or you keep your fingers away from the forbidden fruits …”
“Oh you don´t,” interrupts me Collister.
“That is right. Or you do something, that God forbids, one sin. Sin is the cause of all evil in this world. All that is allowed or not can be found in the Bible, the word of God. I orientate myself thus, consulting the word of Jesus Christ, the God of life and the resurrection. And only His judgments are just.”
“Eye for an eye …”
“Tooth for a tooth, I know,” I break in. “And with this philosophy, society would only consist of blind people and ones who wear false teeth. That is no justice but revenge. It is written: The revenge is Mine, spoketh the Lord. Eye for an eye, the revenge does not function, Jesus instead demands: Love your enemies! With this love, he does not refer to any feeling, but to a decision on how to treat others. And enemies are people that one finds to be rather unsympathic and one avoids. Love your enemies, that works because the Lord are going to handle it. To take the law into one´s own hands is not allowed.”
“Well, with good cause,” Collister agrees. “I do believe in chain of events by chance.”
“Either you believe in God or everything is mere chance. For me, God is the most sovereign ruler of the universe, the one that has everything under his control and thus never makes any mistakes, He is perfect. And that excludes any coincidences at all, the chaos and the fear in this world are of no coincidence, they have reasons. In our consumer society nowadays, many want to live a materialist and hedonistic oriented life and religious faith is lost. And exactly there, where the people don´t belief in the devil, the demonic power is at its peak. Where there is a lack of religious faith, the superstition grows.
The German poet Friedrich Hebbel once stated: Many believe in nothing, but fear everything. There is little trust, but a ;ot of fear in this world. Rooted in this fear is the lack of any trust for God, as a strong belief in God is freeing and gives hope. You have to please God and not the world. God hates self-delusion and self justice as well as the sinful priorities of this contemporary society. Sin means the separation from God and the payback of sin in the lake of fire and brimstone, called hell.”
“Your predecessor wanted to make me belief, that we all would be guilty.”
“Of course, each human is a sinner, but by the belief in Jesus Christ, the people are freed from their sins. It´s the Blood of Jesus that washes our sins away forever.”
“Hey c´mon, it´s alright now,” interrupts again Collister. “Don´t preach any Gospel here. But back to Hobbs, where was I?”
I think hard. “We talked about the coffee, which tasted of holy water?”
“No, before.”
“That Hobbs got drugged?” I answer.
“Really? And?”
“And… that someone might have arranged his death by drowning,” I whispered. “He got drugged first and then someone forced his head into the creek, for example.”
My guest suddenly starts to yawn.
“Hobbs´ case really did cost me sleep over the last few days.”
“I can imagine …”
Then, Colloster looks deep into my eyes.
“Hobbs was last seen alive on this warm Decemberday around 11 p.m. at the monument.”
“Well, ” I actually scrarch my chin.
Collister leans over the table. “And where exactly was Mr. Reverend at that time? ”
“Here in my apartment, ” I answered. “I was sleeping, I already said so.”
“Hobbs died around midnight. But someone did see you around the creek at that time.”
“Thar is clearly an outright lie!” I affirm and get upset.
Moses was a murderer, he killed an Egyptian. But nevertheless, he was a child of God, a chosen one, who lead the tribe of Israelites out of the Egyptian knightship. With the death of Perry Hobbs, the whole village was again free after half a year, freed from a tyrant. I am under suspicion. One can be sure about my hatred concubinates, how I hate physical violence, But no one could even dare to assume to know how I hated Hobbs and wished him to go to hell. No one could read my thoughts.
“Many in the village are slightly happy, that Hobbs is dead,” explains Collister. But that is nothing new to me.
“And some do have a motive, for example our Mr. Major Murphy,” I disclose to the policeman.
Collister seems to be surprised. For him, this information seems to be new and he wants to know more.
“And what exactly?”
Janet Tanner´s child was his illegitimate daughter. He confessed that to me.
“I am not allowed to say that in public. Seal of Confessional.”
“That is not constructive for my investigation.”
“But what I can say is, that our highly regarded village policeman always wanted to teach Hobbs a lesson. And where exactly was Mr. Collister around midnight?”
Collister remains silent and finishes his coffee. After some short consideration, he continues to speak.
“Alright, I will play it down with the narcotic, just like the doping data at the Tour de France, I am not even interested whether someone acutally buys that.”
“Ok, that means, the case Hobbs will be closed?”
“Yes, exactly, the Hobbs case will be closed. The death of Perry Hobbs was an accident, a perfect storm. Whether someone drugged him before his drowing him in the creek is only known by the murderer.”
“Well, that is not completely accurate.”
Respectfully I fold my hands for a prayer and bend my face with closed eyes heavenwards.
“There would be still someone else … ”