On my 28th birthday, the news broke that Shinzo Abe had died, two shotgun blasts to the heart. Though it had nothing to do with me, that afternoon I decided to quit my job.
I found my boss smoking in his office. Seeing me, he sheepishly stubbed out his cigarette - smoking indoors was against the rules, in principle at least. I stated my intention to leave. He feigned regret, but after I repeated myself, he finally nodded. The whole exchange was as smooth as a rehearsed skit.
Before quitting, I worked at a public livestock company, analyzing productivity data for broiler chickens. It was a godlike job: determining how much feed the latest batch of chickens consumed, their average market-ready age, meat yield, and egg production rates, then offering guidance. This way, the fate of each new batch of chicks - how much they’d eat, when their chicken lives would end - was in my hands.
At first, it gave me a rush. But closing those documents, realizing my own fate was likely in someone else’s hands, it felt darkly humorous. Though I saw myself as a god, the higher-ups viewed it as science. They boasted that data-driven farming was our edge over family-run farms. Maybe so. For chickens, a scientifically planned life and death probably seemed more elegant and dignified.
I quickly finished the resignation process. As the HR girl printed my papers, she casually asked what I planned to do next. “Go kill someone,” I said. She looked up wide-eyed, then burst out laughing as she handed me the documents. I rode my scooter home.
On the way, I thought: Shinzo Abe’s life had ended, while mine might just be beginning.
At noon, the sun blazed. No rush to kill anyone. Looking down from my window, I saw people queuing for COVID tests. I realized that even if I were going to kill someone, I’d instinctively get tested first. The thought made me chuckle. Half an hour later, I went upstairs, grabbed a Coke from the fridge with practiced ease, added ice, turned on the AC, and ordered takeout. My phone showed two deliveries due that afternoon. A news alert popped up about a man assaulting a woman in public. The world felt tediously dull.
Who was I supposed to kill? I had no idea. The buyer only provided an address, that the target would be home this afternoon, and that kitchen repairs were scheduled for 7 PM. I had to finish the job before the repairman arrived to claim my 10 bitcoin reward.
The subway wouldn’t allow tools, so I took a taxi. Thinking about how this person, like the Japanese Prime Minister and those chickens at the farm, had no idea their fate was in someone else’s hands, I observed a brief moment of silence. Then I put on my headphones to listen to a celebrity’s new song. It wasn’t good. The world disappointed me a little more.
Before leaving, I’d rationalized it to myself: my life was like stagnant water, choked by oil. The monotonous copy-paste existence had left it rotting and stinking. Killing a stranger sounded like opening a mystery box. That moment of thrill would make me feel alive. If I could escape cleanly and get the reward, even better.
At the complex entrance, the electronic watchdog droned on about scanning codes and facial recognition. I slipped in using stolen personal information while the guard wasn’t looking. The plague era made everything inconvenient, even home invasions.
Inside, there were two elevators. A little girl was waiting for one; mine arrived first. As the doors were closing, she darted in, huddling in the corner. I asked her floor. “Seven,” she whispered. But she didn’t get off at seven - she was going to seventeen, like me. I regretted my stupid kindness. Now I had a witness, and I couldn’t explain I wasn’t some creep following her. When we reached seventeen, I rushed out first to avoid misunderstanding. But as I searched for the right apartment, she zipped past me, punched in a code, and slammed her door shut.
A middle-aged man in pajamas, pot-bellied, answered my target’s door. I stated my identity and entered with my toolbox. The living room was a mess: takeout boxes, trash bags, dirty footprints on the floor. The killing was surprisingly easy. It didn’t take much effort: I knocked him out from behind with a wrench, strangled him with rope, then moved him to the bedroom and covered him with a blanket. People without their guard up are as easy to kill as chickens for slaughter.
Task complete, I immediately confirmed with the buyer, withdrew the bitcoin, uninstalled the app, and went offline. It wasn’t even 5:30 PM yet. I mopped the place, threw some smelly socks in the washing machine, then went to the kitchen to make noodles. Looking for eggs in the fridge, I noticed they were from my former company. At six, the real repairman showed up. I made an excuse and sent him away with 80 yuan for his trouble. Before leaving, I hung the socks to dry in the living room and took out a bag of trash and three takeout boxes. Having done all this, I felt pleased. I went to a nearby internet cafe to play games, stashing the toolbox under the table. At 4 AM, I took a taxi home and showered.
As the cold water from the showerhead hit my face, I shivered. Suddenly curious about the buyer’s motive for the killing. A few nights ago, I’d had a dream: An actor who hated another was invited to perform in the same Spring Festival Gala skit. In the script, he played a construction worker with a scene where he angrily confronted the other with a hammer. Through countless rehearsals, he nursed his hatred. On the night of the Gala, in front of hundreds of millions of viewers, he swung a real hammer he’d secretly swapped in, smashing it into the other’s head. In that moment, the director panicked, millions of hands holding celebratory drinks froze in mid-air. The situation spiraled out of control. The show had to go on. The script was hastily changed, the killer dragged off stage, and the remaining actors, though shaken, finished the skit with forced composure. The audience’s hearts, in their throats, finally settled. The sound of clinking glasses resumed as people sincerely or perfunctorily praised the actors’ performances. Before anyone noticed the bloodstains hidden under a new carpet on stage, the next act had begun, with a soprano cheerfully singing an ode.
After my shower, as dawn broke, I suddenly felt lonely. I randomly connected with someone on a dating app. The woman immediately called me “husband,” saying she was on some village farm and wanted me to hear “our baby chicks’ chirping.” I felt a bit lost, thinking these farm chickens might be happier than those on the production line. Soon, faint chicken sounds came through my headphones. I looked out the window. The sun, like a soft-boiled egg, was about to peek out. At that moment, the absurdity of the world reached its climax.