It looms in the dark. It stares at him, taunting him. He stares back, feeling the conflicting emotions inside that come nightly. The anticipation. The revulsion. The acceptance. The disgust. Round and round they go. The urges: to become part of it o to turn his back on it.


The black bag sits on the little counter siguiente to it, illuminated por the portable television’s glow. The bag is filled with the tools he needs to complete his task each night. Tools that, he, himself hates to clean. He can almost hear them calling his name. They whisper to him…encourage him to go ahead with what he needs to do. What he’s paid to do.


But, he doesn’t want to do it. Not tonight. Not any night. Yet, it pays the bills. Gives them food, shelter and clothing. All blood money to him in nearly every sense of the phrase. He knows his amor wouldn’t approve; not por a long shot. It’s to keep the girl safe, from the world and from his boss. It’s also to keep the Boss from telling on him to her. To ruin it all and make him pay for the death. His communicator beeps again. Time to do a thankless job. He reaches for the helmet, removing his glasses. He swings on the chaqueta and picks up the bag. Once again, the Repo Man is born. He leaves the televisión on; there’s nothing but static. The volume is low. It sounds eerily like:
Nathan, Nathan, Nathan……