Mr. Hornet

[Credit: This piece is inspired by Jon T's Promptmanteau Generator, which this week gifted us with: Grisly Hornet]

People have been calling me Mr. Hornet, like some sort of two dollar comic book villian. To be honest, when I first heard it, I loved it, but the media and keyboard warrior fuckabouts of the world have soured it for me.

After seeing the things they say about me on the nightly news and internet chat boards, it’s clear they think hornets are all aggression and venomous sting, but if they got their heads out of their asses, they’d find that hornets, at heart, are passive creatures. It’s only when you threaten their colony that they become defensive. They’re protectors. That’s what I am. I’m a protector of my colony. And as impersonal as it may be, my colony comprises folks with some deep pockets. This kind of work doesn’t run cheap.

My clients are those who have been wronged in the worst kind of way. Those who need the unthinkable done, for unfathomable reasons. I try not to get too deep into their problems, but it’s clear to me, if you want someone to suffer this way, to keep on living, but to rob them of something that’s most precious to them, so they’ll sit and stew and suffer in a personal sized prison of paralysis for the rest of their life, you’ve got a damn good reason.

Finally, my mark emerged from the bank. I tossed my quarter eaten hot dog and followed at a safe clip of twenty yards. This area was too busy for me to go to work, but I’ve been tailing this guy for two weeks, and he always takes the alleyway home.

As we approached the alley, I closed in. By the time he rounded the corner, I was two yards behind him. I wasted no time.

“Sir, you dropped something,” I said.

He glanced back at me and then down at the eroded concrete floor.

This tactic worked every time. I only need them to bow their head for a fraction of a second. It forces the cervical area of the spinal cord to extend, opening up that sweet spot my little stinger loves to make its home.

I pulled my blade from its sheath and inserted it at a perfect forty-five degree angle between the C1 and C2 vertebrae, severing the spinal cord. This is the sweet spot because here, you’ve got the most separation, especially with the chin pointed at the floor. If I was to miss my mark and drop down to say, the C4, I’d risk hitting bone or getting a pinch.

The man hit the floor. A pile of meat and bone, no movement, no sound. A job well done.

I harnessed my blade and carried on to my waiting car, far enough from this place to never snag on suspicious eyes.

This is my time of reflection.

The rush I get when I drop my mark—I wouldn’t say it’s sexual, but it’s definitely sexually adjacent. I feel it in my loins. Not full-tick change your pants orgasmic, but deeper than that. A satisfaction that can be had no way else. This is my little piece of heaven that very few on this earth share. It’s a special time for me.

Once I reach the car and head to my room, I leave it all out on the street. I don’t think about it again, not really. I’ve trained myself to compartmentalize these moments into work and home, and my family is better off for it. They don’t need me bringing this junk through the door. The way I see it, my family is happy and there’s one less cage rattling prick walking the earth, so, yeah, I’d say I’m doing good work here.