Frank Iero Must Die {Frerard}

1

I've decided to make Friday night my update time instead of Sunday so mark it down, bitches

My eyes scanned over his file as I sat in my cold, barely cushioned seat on the subway train. I didn't know what it was, but something told me that this particular kill would be different, more...interesting. Not that I was complaining. Killing isn't entertaining without a little spice here and there. I returned my attention to the file, still remaining aware of my surroundings.

Frank Iero

Birthday: October 31

Hometown: Belleville, New Jersey, United States

Current Address: 182 Blink St

Height: 5"4

Hair Colour: Brown

Eye Colour: Hazel

Other Important Features: Scorpion tattoo on neck, "HALLOWEEN" tattoo on knuckles, unknown amount of torso/arm tattoos, lip ring

I cocked an eyebrow at the eye colour. I'd never seen "hazel" in a file unless the person had a say. But he was a target, not an assassin, he wouldn't even know this file existed. Re-reading his information, I noticed that he was really rather short, and tucked that fact away in case it became valuable later. You never know.

I brought up the photo of him that came with the file and realised why they described his eyes as hazel. There really was no other description. They were the kind of eyes you could get lost in if you weren't planning on murdering the person they belonged to.

I studied the photo carefully, memorizing his appearance. He was very short, his hair had been dyed black and he was wearing a red t-shirt that said...did that say Homophobia is gay?

Cute. Sucks that I'll have to kill him.

Yes, I'm gay. That doesn't mean I can't kill. Hell, it just makes me put a knife in the heart of any homophobe that I take a disliking to. I didn't just do paying jobs, sometimes it was personal. Other times, someone just got in my way.

I wondered what Iero had done to anger someone with connections enough to get me hired to do the job. My last kill had been an investigative journalist who'd gotten in over his head while looking into a politician with rumoured mob connections. Of course, those rumours were true. The mob had, however, refused to handle the issue for him. He had contacted a friend of a friend, who knew some of the people in charge of my organization, and I'd gotten the job. I'd had to kill the pizza delivery guy too, but that poor bastard was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, not that that had stopped me. When their bodies were found, the cops would investigate anyone with a bone to pick, but I wasn't one of those people. We always covered our money trail and got away with murder, literally.

I'd reached a point of no remorse, and it was ultimate. My motivation wasn't money, unlike most of the assassins in the world, although I didn't mind getting it. My motivation was murder. The hunt, the thrill of the chase, the killing, I loved it. I was a killing machine, taking mission after mission, simply to get it out of my system. Why? Cue sob story.

When I was fifteen, I came out to my parents. My mom committed suicide because she'd rather that than have to live with a gay son (yeah, fucked up, I know), and my dad sent me away. The super religious boarding school he sent me to was hell. My dad had informed the staff of why I was being sent there, and they in turn informed the students. I hadn't seen my father since he did that to me out of disgust for my sexual orientation, and I didn't plan on changing that now. He'd sent me to hell, and I was unforgiving.

As you can imagine, I didn't have a positive high school experience. I ran away from the sorry excuse for a school that he had sent me to, picked up my brother Mikey from our dad's clutches, and got away. Not long after that, when we were living on the streets, I got recruited. Now I'm one of the best, and Mikey and I can get by.

I suppose it could be the years of extra training I got because I started young, but I was pretty self-aware and in my opinion it was something else. To me, every victim was my father or my mother or one of the ignorant assholes from my boarding school, and that felt good. To finally make them feel a portion of the pain I felt, to get my revenge. And earn a living.

Call me insane, I know I am. I murder, lie, and probably have countless mental illnesses. Does that mean I care? No. Not in the least.

You see, people can act as selfless as they want, donating to charity and helping old ladies across the street, but the truth is, every human action is for the benefit of number one, a.k.a yourself.

We're kind when it makes us feel good, generous when we expect something in return, and comforting when it comforts us. Everything we do has an underlying motive to help ourselves. I'm not criticizing it, in fact, I'm saying we should embrace it. If I'm going to be selfish, I'm going to do it my way. I may as well take care of my larger needs while being selfish, so unleashing anger and making money to feed myself were definitely a plus. I don't believe in human ability to do something solely for the good of others. I have yet to hear of or witness a situation in which someone does something for someone else and gains absolutely nothing from it. There's always something to be gained, and as humans, we go right for it.

The people in charge of us hired-assassins were well used to my eccentric and cold ways by now, because I always got the job done. As long as the target was dead and their hands were clean, they didn't care what we did.

I was calm, cold and ruthless. The people in charge loved that. I really didn't care about their opinion, I'd kill them if I was offered enough. I'd kill anyone if I was offered enough. More for the murder than the money, but Mikey needed to eat.

My only real weakness is Mikey, though I have to admit, he can look out for himself. Whenever I decided to take a break from the murder scene, I would go to the apartment I shared with Mikey and teach him self-defense. I'd taught him most of what I know, but not how to kill. I will never let my baby brother be put through the traumatic experience of having to take someone's life.

It wasn't just that it was the kind of thing that stuck with you, it was that if you have enough bottled up pain and emotion, it can be addictive. I couldn't stop killing, it had become my life, but I knew that eventually something would go wrong and I'd either die or spend my life in jail. I didn't want Mikey to end up like me, he was all I had left, the one person I truely cared about.

After this mission, I planned to visit Mikey for a few weeks. I had yet to teach him how to disarm an advanced explosive, and he had been begging me to teach him. I'd better make this mission quick. Sorry Frank, time to meet your tragic end.