The teapot sat between us on the table, porcelain and expensive. 𝘐 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘐 𝘬𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘪𝘱𝘵... The man with the briefcase across from me yawns, covering his mouth unapologetically until his eyes water. I reach for the tea and he shakes his head as if he was disgusted by the innocent pot. 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘐 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥'𝘷𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵. 𝘖𝘳 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘳. 𝘗𝘧𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘬-𝘶𝘱 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘺. 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘳.

“What makes you think you can do this job?” I wanted to plunge a screwdriver into his ear, and make it mush his brains out of the other ear; but I kept it to myself.

“I’m good with… machinery, I know how to… control people, strength. I usually get what I want; good deals,” I mutter, looking into the palms of my hands as if I might find the right answers there. “Plus I’m pretty hot, don’t you think, Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes?” He makes a face, like a cringe. 𝘚𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘪𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘶𝘺𝘴. 𝘕𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸. 𝘚𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘫𝘰𝘣 𝘪𝘴?

“Look,” he sighs, bringing a hand to the bridge on his nose. “I just don’t think you’re cut out for it.”

I stand, without saying a word and walk to the kitchen sink. I pull the drawers out and start unloading my stashes there. The guns, stiletto knife, blade sharpeners, bullets, matches— and lastly— the powder. No, not gun 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘥𝘦𝘳. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 powder. Capital P; Powder.

“I beg to differ,” I murmur, opening the Dr. Pepper on the counter. “I beg to differ.”

“I don’t care what tools you have at your disposal,” he stands, a hand outstretched, “I don’t think you’re cut out for the job.” Right then, it felt like a bulldozer ran over my rat sized dreams and flattened them smooth as paper.

“Excuse me?” 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘦'𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘬𝘯𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘬? My glance wanders to the smooth knives on the marble countertops. I turn back to him with a nasty grin, “You’re going to wish you prayed, my friend.”

“You can have the job.”

“Too late, beautiful.”