The amount of metal in this city astounds me. I've never really noticed it before today; now that I had, it chokes me. Gagging silently I walk swiftly down the street, gripping the briefcase in my hand tightly while simultaneously loosening my tie. The day is gray and muggy, just the kind of day you'd expect to get a tragic phone call from a world-weary city cop. Well, someone was going to get that unfortunate little gift today.

My polished shoes clip quietly against the concrete as I move through the writhing crowds of people. The soft leather wallet I purchased two years ago is not in the pocket of my suit, but rather in my briefcase. Along with the various explosives and handgun I snatched off a street rat I gutted a week ago. I have a mission, and no pickpocket is going to deter me from today's one important errand.

I am going to kill my bank representative. I'm a fairly wealthy costumer, so they'e given me someone who will "take care of" me every time. Lucky freakin' me. That incompetent idiot has stuttered at me for the last time. His high, whiny voice along with his gaunt and bony face is just too much. For my life to go along smoothly, the idiot must be gone and a nice middle aged woman or old man needs to take his place. Maybe now I can sleep peacefully at night without fantasies of gutting his twiggy little body. Have I mentioned how much I hate the little bastard?

I think maybe I should explain myself a bit. My name is William Sunderland. I am twenty five years old, and I am a lawyer. I live in Chicago. Crime is so abundant here, it's less interesting than the evening traffic report. Murder, rape, arson; none of it surprises anyone. Dozens of people could string themselves from the bridge to make a statement, and not a one person would give a rip. This is how desensitized this city has become.

My weekly escapades are just apart of the evening news here. And one more bank representative is not going grab the attention of this city. But maybe destroying the biggest bank on the west side might. I have no intentions of being caught in the explosion of course; I think I may have left the stove on at home and I've only just put in a new couch from that catalog Whitney gave me. No. I have many other things to do before I die.

But being stuck in a prison cell isn't one of them, so I will have to work fast. I can see the bank now as it looms over the street, one big pressure pushing on everyone who walks below it.

"Pay your bills, give us money, and please god don't let them look too closely at our books."

Oh yes. My bank was corrupt as hell. Mob dealings and inside jobs. Why I chose this bank I have not a damn clue, but whatever. It will serve it's purpose. I sigh and lean against the brick wall of a Starbucks before I cross the street. Is that little moron really worth all this trouble? This is the last of my explosives, and I'll be hard pressed to find the junkie I bought this batch off of. I ponder this for at least ten minutes, earning odd looks by passing disaffected college students, and stuck up women with large shopping bags. A swift glare and a small snarl sends them scurrying away.

I finally decide to go along with my plan, because really I've already wasted so much time. I'd be foolish to just duck out now. Plus, this was on my way to the theater. A new horror movie has come out and it looks relatively interesting. Mumbling to myself, I cross the street and ignore the myriad of honks mixed with obscenities aimed at me; God I love mid-morning traffic. The guard at the front door smiles at me out of recognition and I smile back, but out of humor. The thought that this man's corrupted ass will be strung across the sidewalk in twenty minutes cheers me up.

The familiar smell of paper and sense of irritation calms my jittery stomach and I stride confidently across the marble floor to one of the front desks. Don't misunderstand me; I'm not nervous. I'm simply anxious about making the two o' clock showing of that movie. My mouth twists in distaste at the thought of missing it. I walk up to the desk and calmly request to see Drew Blake, my bank represe-whosiwhateverhe'scalled. The woman at the desk smiles at me and points me in the direction of his office and I grimace. She has cofee breath. I thank her, getting the words out while managing not to breath in. She doesn't notice.

Drew sees me coming through the doorway of his perpetually open door, honestly I've never seen the door shut, and pales a little. I intimidate him. But that's not why he's scared. I see a woman in front of him, but she does not see me. Before I can move, she snaps the door closed. Drew's office is away from the others, so I am the only one in the entire bank who hears his muffled screams, and the various thumps that I can only acredit to a falling body. A bit irritated that someone got there before I did, I sit down in a chair, looking every part the pissed off customer. Ten minutes later, the woman walks out, and jumps when she sees me. By now I am seething.

But then I see her hands. There is not a speck of blood on them. Her shoes however, are a different matter. The whole heel of each of stillettos are soaked in blood. I blink in confusion before smiling at her, and in the reflection of the window behind her, I can see that I look insane. After a moment, she reflects a similiar look. Without a word, she walks out of the bank. I sigh and enter Drew's office, carefully stepping over the pool of blood that is quickly spreading across the plush carpet. Closing the door behind me, I stick my hands in my pockets and observe the corpse below me.

"Well, damn," is all I can say. The woman has nicely left him partially alive.

For him to suffer, I can imagine. He'll have to suffer a bit longer, I'm afraid. I set down my briefcase and start to whistle some Johnny Cash song, pulling out a small knife and a lighter. I can feel Drew's eyes on me as he tries to gurgle some useless comment at me; I ignore him and do a little jig over to him, caught up in my own whistling. I laugh above Drew at the look of sheer panic in his eyes; he has no idea what he's in for.

Ten minutes and a lot of muffled screaming later, my bank representative is dead and my suit is a bit wrinkled. Being hunched over for ten minutes really does a number on your back. I sigh in content and wipe off my knife, whistling a nameless tune now. Killing someone really can brighten your day, if you do it right. I avoid the pools of blood and open my briefcase, fiddling with it until everything is set. I straighten my tie and look at my watch, walking out of the office and leaving the door open. I ignore the shouts and screams behind me as I exit the bank; I guess Drew was a litte more important than I originally thought. Oh well. One less person breathing this disgusting air.

I can hear a guard shouting into his walkie talkie, but he's cut off as I reach the other side of the street and push the button on the crude detonator. A rush of heat assaults my back and I can feel the hairs on the back of me neck singe. Debris is flung everywhere, and I realize that the woman kindly left her own device in the room as well; just my briefcase couldn't have done that much damage. I smile to myself and continue down the street. There is a moment of collective silence, then the screams erupt. Already I can hear sirens from across town. Unlucky bastards. They won't find a scrap of evidence, or a witness to interrogate.

I check my watch again and sigh in irritation. The movie has already started. A flare of rage boils in my ribcage and just at that moment, I walk past a man talking on a cell phone. In a flash of insanity, I realize something. I will kill this man. Why? No reason. No reason except that his tie is horrid, his lazy eye disturbs me, and his haircut is unflattering. I smile toothily and carefully reach into my pocket for the spare knife I have concealed.

What day. What a great freaking day.