“The job’s high pressure,” said Mason. “Immense competition. You gotta constantly reinvent yourself.”
“Explain,” said Doctor Slotter, polishing his brass nameplate.
“In the eighties, machetes were standard issue.” Mason pulled a machete from his backpack. “Wield this baby, you were respected, feared.” He swished it dramatically, then dropped it. “Nowadays, victims expect variety. Corkscrews, hatracks, zippers.”
Mason swung his backpack. It’s zipper sliced Slotter’s jugular. Blood spurted. Gurgling, Slotter collapsed.
“Even worse,” Mason bent for his machete, “is the reincarnation factor.”
Mason rose. Doctor Slotter stood before him, nameplate raised.
Shoulda seen that coming, thought Mason, as his skull split.