On the day I turned 28, news broke of Shinzo Abe’s death – two shotgun blasts to the heart. While it had nothing to do with me, it was that afternoon I chose to resign.
I found my boss smoking in his office, who sheepishly stubbed out his cigarette upon seeing me – in principle, indoor smoking was banned. I stated my desire to quit. He feigned concern, but after a second explanation, he agreed. The entire exchange was as smooth as a rehearsed play.
Before quitting, I worked at a public livestock company, analyzing productivity data for broiler chickens. It was a godlike role: determining the feed, market readiness, and yield of chickens, thus controlling the fate of each new batch.
This power thrilled me at first, but the realization that my own fate was in others’ hands brought a dark humor to my mind. While I saw myself as a deity, my superiors viewed it as science, boasting that data-driven farming was our competitive edge. To the chickens, a scientifically planned existence and demise must have seemed more dignified.
After wrapping up my resignation, the HR assistant casually asked my next steps. “I’m off to kill someone,” I joked. She stared, then chuckled, handing me my papers. I left on my scooter, pondering the end of Abe’s life and the beginning of something new for me.
That afternoon, in the sweltering sun, I felt no hurry to commit the deed. Looking down from my apartment, I saw a line for COVID tests. Even if I were to kill, I mused, I’d probably get tested first – a thought that made me laugh. Later, with a Coke in hand, air conditioning on, and takeout ordered, the mundanity of the world – highlighted by a news alert about a public assault – weighed heavily on me.
Who was my target? I had no idea. The client provided only an address, the time the victim would be home, and a note about a kitchen repair at seven. I needed to act before the repairman’s arrival to claim my ten bitcoins.
Subway regulations meant I couldn’t carry my tools, so I took a taxi instead. Contemplating the unknown fate of my target, akin to Abe and those chickens at the farm, I offered a minute’s silence in his honor. The world, reflected in a celebrity’s new song I listened to, disappointed me again.
I rationalized my actions: my life, stagnant and rotting from repetition, needed a jolt. Killing a stranger seemed like an exhilarating gamble, a moment of vitality. And if I could escape with the reward, all the better.
At the complex, I bypassed security using a stolen identity. The pandemic era made even murder inconvenient.
Inside, I encountered a young girl in the elevator, who, like me, was going to the seventeenth floor. I regretted my naive kindness, realizing I had an unexpected witness and possibly looked like a stalker. To avoid misunderstanding, I hurried out first, but in searching for the right apartment, the girl sped past me into her own.
The door to my target’s apartment was answered by a middle-aged man in pajamas. Pretending to be a repairman, I entered. The living room was a mess. The murder was disturbingly easy: a hit with a wrench, strangulation, and then staging the body in the bedroom. An unguarded person is as easy to kill as a chicken destined for slaughter.
Mission accomplished, I confirmed with the buyer, transferred the bitcoins, and disconnected. It was not yet 5:30 PM. I cleaned up, cooked noodles, and found, ironically, that the eggs in the fridge were from my former employer. At six, I sent the actual repairman away with an excuse and some cash. I left the apartment with a bag of trash and the sense of a job well done. I spent the night playing games at an internet café, returning home at 4 AM.
As I showered, shivering under the cold water, I pondered the buyer’s motive. I remembered a dream about an actor who, harboring a grudge during a televised performance, swapped a prop hammer for a real one and struck his co-actor. The chaos was quickly smoothed over, and the show went on.
After the shower, feeling lonely at dawn, I connected with a woman on a dating app. She called me “husband” and spoke of her life on a mountain farm. As I listened to distant chicken clucks over the phone, I gazed at the sunrise, its absurdity mirroring the world’s.