The Puncher
Her husband had to go. She didn’t care how, when, or by whom. All she cared was that he would no longer walk on this earth. Torment comes in many guises, and hers was this man who once loved her (pretended to love her?) but now did nothing but break her, over and over again, break her.
She asked around in a shady part of town — the part she wouldn’t normally step foot into — being careful not to be too direct with her words or to draw attention to herself. A Mexican at a pool hall told her, in broken English, about someone nicknamed The Puncher. “You speak to him,” said the Mexican. “He takes care of people. He is the best at what he does.”
Four days later she was waiting for The Puncher in a quiet corner of the local park. About 30 yards away children played on swings and chased each other across the playground, their happy cries echoing out and encircling her with reminders of something she would never have. A man suddenly appeared behind her without making a noise and she was startled a little, but reminded herself to act calm. He introduced himself as The Puncher. She was surprised by his stature — short, a little tubby, not the tall and muscular hitman she’d pictured — but then who was she to say what physical form violence could take? His hands, rough when she shook one, had killed many men.
“I want you to take care of my husband,” she said in a quiet voice. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? Take care of people?”
“Of course,” said The Puncher. “Taking care of people is my specialty.”
“Here are his details,” she said, handing him a slip of paper. “He will be at that address on the weekend. Of course this cannot come back to me, that goes without saying. But I am told you have utmost discretion.”
She went on, nervously. “Just… look after him. I don’t care how you do it or what you use. And I want you to first make this message clear to him: he will suffer and he will die. I want him to know that. I will pay you whatever you ask, money is no object.”
The Puncher frowned and opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again, then drew breath and said simply, “We will meet after the job is done and you can pay me then.” She nodded and without another word got up and quickly walked away. The Puncher sat quietly for another moment, then got up and walked off in the other direction.
The Puncher spent days planning and preparing. Like all jobs, this would be his finest work. He was subtle, discreet, careful to pay attention to every little detail. By the weekend everything was ready.
The husband was at the address as promised. The wife knew he’d be there because it was the house of his mistress and he’d told her he would be away for work. He was sitting in bed in his underwear reading the paper and drinking a cup of coffee while the mistress was in the bathroom taking a shower.
The Puncher arrived in his van.
The husband took a sip of coffee and turned over the page.
The Puncher knocked on the door.
The husband looked up from the paper, froze and listened.
The Puncher knocked on the door again.
The husband put his paper down, got up and slipped on a robe. He went downstairs and as he walked towards the front door he saw a blurry shadow through the glass crouch down, then get up, then disappear.
The Puncher left the box on the doorstep then melted back through the garden shadows to his van.
The husband threw open the door but there was no-one there. Then he noticed the large white box on the ground. His name was printed in small letters on top. He carried it inside.
He put the box on the kitchen bench and looked at it. “Honey,” he yelled up to his mistress, but she was still in the shower and didn’t hear him.
He reached down and slowly, carefully untied the string on the box. He paused.
And then he opened the lid.
Inside was the most beautiful cake he’d ever seen. It was multi-tiered and decorated with intricate swirls of pale blue icing. In the center of the cake was a poem, piped finely in immaculate cursive writing:
You will suffer and you will die
So live each day like it were goodbye!
Every moment is precious as gold —
Remember this as you grow old.
And then below in larger letters:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
“Strange,” said the husband to himself. “Not your regular Hallmark greeting, is it? And besides — my birthday isn’t for another month.” He stared at the cake for a few moments as if deciding whether it was too nice to eat, then shrugged a pleased kind of shrug and went to go put on a fresh pot of coffee.
The Puncher drove back to his shop feeling good. He always felt good when he delivered a beautiful product that he knew would bring people joy. Sure, the woman had been a little strange, and he had taken some creative liberties with her request. But that was what made him so good at his job. And what a challenge, turning such a dismal message into a positive birthday greeting! As for the cake itself — all those years punching dough made him the best pastry chef in town. He smiled to himself. That’s why they called him The Puncher, after all. He felt sure his client would be over the moon when she found out about the excellent job he’d done.
