The Depressed Hitman

I have this book called The Nighttime Novelist by Joseph Bates and in it there is an exercise for building initial ideas for a story.  You pick an adjective from column A and a noun from column B and go with it.  So I picked “Depressed Hitman”.  Why is our hitman depressed?  Is it because he’s a hitman?  Maybe because he always wanted to be a ballet dancer but was initiated in the mob, and now he wants out so he can pursue his dream of being in The Nutcracker.  OK, so we have a hitman that’s always wanted to be a ballet dancer because his uncle Gregor was back in Mother Russia.  The image I have in my mind of a Russian hitman is a big burly guy with 2 day old stubble and crew cut.  Not the image of a ballet dancer.  Should the tone be one of humor as is the case here?  Or should it be darker?  Maybe our Russian hit man is depressed because he’s a hitman, and he has seen enough blood and families torn apart.  He wants to be callous, but he can’t do it anymore.  Now what if he wants out so bad that he hatches a plan with someone he’s supposed to hit.  Maybe it was someone that stole money from the Russian mob boss in New York.  Maybe he’s good at stealing money so they make a plan where the guy will steal more money, and the hitman will provide the “muscle” to get it.  It’s an unlikely alliance that could prove to be a decent plot line.

Maybe I’ll try to write a scene tomorrow.


7 thoughts on “The Depressed Hitman

  1. The depressed hit man has had someone identify his identity. His fate is in another’s hands. He is torn between trying to love but consumed with hate from his emotion less job. Etc… I
    Ike this method of writing. I will try it myself. I am pleased I stumbled upon you.

    • I like this! I have a few ideas and have had one mulling about in Draft land for a few days now. I’m thinking I’ll just finish it up and post and see what people have to say. I’d love to hear what you think, and I might try your idea here with trying to love but consumed with hate. I like that duality of extreme opposites. I can’t imagine how torn apart he must feel. Maybe his next hit is even supposed to be the woman he loves….wow…so many options now!

  2. Rida was depressed, but more angry at herself for hoping an online date would actually evolve into something. She sat across from a balding, troll like man with tiny teeth and small, un-manicured hands. Of course the pic he posted was of him 20 years ago (like I wouldn’t fucking notice). She lied respectfully and with a smile, “I really enjoyed dinner, but I have to get going.” He walked her to her car, noting the multiple bumper stickers she had. “Wow, you sure do have a lot of stickers,” he said. She lied again, “Oh, I bought this used from a private seller. I haven’t gotten around to getting rid of those.” With that, he reached for her and tried to kiss her. She politely rebuffed, “I’m just getting over the flu, I can’t.” He accepted her words and asked to see her again. She said she would call him. She wouldn’t. It was still early, not even 10pm. Instead of to her apartment, she drove into Olde City to find a quiet drink. Not known for her pre-planning skills; of course there were no parking spots close by. She had to park six blocks away. Being in new, red stilettos with ankle straps, she decided it was better to take the short cut through a long, paved, dumpster littered alley, instead of walking on the main street with all of its cobble stones. Just a little than midway through the barely lit alley, she caught her heel in a crack. Her foot was wrenched from the shoe. “Fuck,” she cursed. As she kneeled down, delicately balancing against the side of a dumpster, a metal door quickly opened and closed on the opposite side of the dumpster. Two men appeared, laughing. The smaller of the two was telling a joke when the other casually pulled something dark from his jacket. She knew instantly what it was when she heard three muffled shots and saw the joke telling man’s body collapse to the ground in front of her. Part of his skull was missing, exposing shredded, bloody brain matter. She must have gasped though she did not hear herself.The other man was now in front of her. Towering figure, gun in hand. She still kneeled, one shoe off. She accepted her fate. As a silent tear streamed down the side of her face, she whispered softly with unknown strength and clarity, “Not in my face, please.” The seconds seemed to stretch into lifetimes. “Put on your shoe,” he uttered with a thick Russian accent. As she rose, he firmly grabbed her arm and briskly exited with her from the alley, his weapon concealed within his jacket. She knew not to speak, not to struggle. They walked for three blocks and stopped at the driver’s side of a dark sedan. “Get in the front,” he said, with no emotion. As she entered the car, he simultaneously entered the back seat. So there they sat. In silence. Until he spoke again without emotion, “Not in your face.” It wasn’t a statement, nor was it a question.The words were just there, dangling between them.

    (that’s all i got — i picture her saving him from depression, both falling in love, but in the end he kills her because that is what he does — no happy ending for rida:) hope you don’t mind my tagging along in your story, but i have a weakness for strong, russian men… so much for going to bed early.

  3. OMG! i also wrote, “no happy ending for Rida”. WTF! god. i am so sexually frustrated and i don’t even know it. i think i may have just sexually harassed you on some weird level…

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