I’m tellin’ you straight: we gotta tear this operation down to the studs and build it back, born-digital, full-stack. Adapt or die in this all-against-all hustle—Uber, Airbnb, whatever’s next. Whole world’s just one concrete panic-town now: a global island, hyper-capitalist heat. Money-liquid, money-device, money-skin.

​

Back then my grand-dad was pure impact deliverable. Post-sale? Customer retention? Talent management? Miss him with that. Dude came outta Ceará with nothing but a peixeira and a same-day-delivery promise—daylight, broad as sin. Efficiency was the value prop; that was the brand. No trade-guilds, no marketing budget. Just quality-kill and word-of-mouth. And that spoke louder than any jingle.

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Dad was Level-Up 2.0. City-born, book-smart. Profit-share, lead-gen, pro logo, NPS surveys, process-review. Lean-services, Agile scrum. Still sold safety-value over price—because in our line no one’s broke, only scared. Market segmentation, seasonality, ICP: exec, politico, lobbyist under investigation right after election night. Pops was the Volvo of hit-men—silent elite. Secretary, accountant, convenience package. He drafted a code of conduct, mission & values, CSR white-paper—the whole deck. That’s the rulebook I grew up on.

​

The mark had dark circles; I clocked ’em. Late hour. I watered him every sixty minutes. Beard and hair all wild, made him look even more burnt. He kept running his mouth, changed topics, tried every play, but my focus was Kevlar. I’d built callus for this.

​

I listened, logged, computed—but no outward reaction. Truth is, every prep-step was already a little body-high, almost euphoric. By then he was monologuing to ghosts. The new kid didn’t have that armor yet, so I doubled down. He was the trainee.

​

“Shove him into the john, fast,” I said.

​

Blood misted the air—tiny red pixels on the desk. The guy was strapped to a chair; we rolled him into the ensuite. Kid still packing the gauge. I asked for the knife with a nod—got the green light. Snipped the zip-ties; the dude collapsed onto the plastic-lined floor. Silence dropped. Kid stared at his phone, hands shaking, eyes twitching across the screen. I slid over, told him: drop it. It’s noise. Handle later.

​

“Listen,” I barked, squeezing his shoulder. “We got business now, right?” Phone pocketed, horror finally landing.

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“First job: unbolt the toilet. Lay it sideways, leave that pipe thirsty for flow.”

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Told the kid: grab Toolkit One. Hole in the guy’s chest, bull’s-eye soaking the shirt. Wall paint blooming crimson halo. Droplets about to crawl. Scene looked frozen—should move, should blur—but no: a photograph. “Strip him,” I said.

​

Kid moved like a stunned mime, reliving the shot in his own ribs, spreadsheeting the costs inside and out. We got the man naked.

I centered the body, knees folded, back propped, flat on the tiles. Kid hovered, eyes ping-ponging to the dresser boxes. From the duffel I pulled shoe-covers; the floor was already candy-cane with blood.

Night air on the balcony felt A/C-grade. Let him breathe—didn’t want him bolting to the cops and nuking his career. I palmed a small blade, sliced thick at neck, pits, groin—arteries first. Fibers frayed like brisket. Kneeling, both hands on chest over the slug-hole, I ran reverse CPR, pumping blood out. First-aid procedure, upside down. Red rushed like you’re wringing a sponge.

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Bathroom temp spiked—my sweat, his juice. Then the body drained, sponge spent. Five minutes of steady reps and he was pale gelatin. Open pipe drank it down. Face stiffened, still weirdly alive-looking. Only sounds: my soles on plastic, the gurgle at the drain.

“Need the bleach jug outside,” I said.

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First rinse: bleach rain on the tiles. Let some flush the pipe—kill the hot-metal smell. “Yellow jug now.” Degreaser on walls, tarp, shower on blast. “Grab the horse-brush.” I scrubbed room and corpse till skin looked pork-purple.

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Had to surface for air; kid drenched, face bells red. I cooled him with sink water, palms to forehead. “Easy, big guy. Breathe. I’m here.” Popped a pill in his mouth. Waited. He leveled.

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From the duffel: medical masks—meat-smell was creeping back. Neck was a faucet; tarp was a lake, inching to the pipe-mouth. Pulled a medium-weight maul and started dental extraction. Upper, lower—seeds from ripe fruit. Each tool bagged zip-lock, one per. “Hammer stays out.” Gloves on; scooped pearls.

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“There’s a fan in the bedroom—window-mount, full throttle. And fetch the apron.”

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Garden-loppers next: clipped all twenty digits, bag two. Handed the loppers back—kid wanted mission.

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Big-box cleaver—my own Christmas gift ten years ago. Set blade just above the C-spine, three hammer pops: head off clean. “Large plain bag—hustle.” He bagged the head, gagged on bile; I tied a loose knot.

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“Need air?”

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Goal: six-piece breakdown. Joints shredded but sinewed; maul plus cleaver made short work. Bleach rinse two. Hung limbs over drain, pinch-pressed veins like squeezing wet cloth.

Arms to halves, legs to halves—knee tendon tricky, busted out the jigsaw. Cuts started looking butcher-shop tidy.

 

“Time check.”

“Almost four.”

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Two hours minimum for torso and guts. “Grab the saw on the towel.” Wanted sunrise exit—no neighbors, no badge curiosity.

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Like field-dressing game: slit top down, spill tubing and organs, detach with knife. Heap slid like octopus. “More bleach, kid. Fan max.” Slow-feed viscera through pipe to dodge clogs. Shell left. Hooked garden hose to kitchen tap—needed throughput. Saw quartered the torso. Apron dripping, boots squeaking—standard abattoir Monday.

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Stacked processed cuts. Flow-state now—chaos trimmed. Water stream sent teeth down, then twenty fingers—zip-locked like bloody fries. Bleach, running water, caustic pellets. Gone. Ribs hosed, torso stacked. “Bring the empty bin” (the gut-box). Head left. Eye contact still too human. Scalpel popped the jaw, widened the smile, cartilages free. Into the bin. Crown remained.

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Hair-grip, saw—split skull halves. Bone dust smelled burnt. Couldn’t dice further solo. Sprayed again; gray mush flecked out. Imagined confessing every detail to the cops, on record, as long as family never heard. City would gain a headline: maybe Devil-Carver, whatever.

 

Dumped halves, final bleach, more chlorine. Finished with eucalyptus soap. Turned off supply. Ordered towels. Place smelled like fresh locker room, not slaughterhouse.

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Kid finally spoke after hours of silence:

“How much is this one gonna run?”

“Payment?”

“Yeah.”

“Five grand. Two for you, three for me.”

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Spread a towel at the door, laid cuts one by one. Kid plastic-wrapped—three spins each so nothing looks sus. Styro cooler by fridge—pack it. Then empty the fridge into cooler too.

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“Who was that?” he asked, door open.

“Just a pig, man. Just a pig.”