<span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-i">"...And then I shot him, the easiest twenty bucks of my life…" - Lee Harvey Oswald, probably. </span></span>

Bitches? <span class="mu-s">Zero.</span>
Cash? <span class="mu-s">None.</span>
Home? <span class="mu-s">Less.</span>
Self-respect? <span class="mu-s">Practically Nonexistent.</span>

"So you dream of being a <span class="mu-r">Killer</span> eh? Think it's all whores, drugs and money? Fame. Bah!"

The greasy rotund man pivots in his large stained desk chair spitting a wad of flem across the room, the thick liquid catching the light and rippling various shades.

You go to open your mouth to speak, you really need the money after all…

"That's all the kids say these days. I'm up to my neck in teens down on their luck, or the ones out for revenge or the ones on the hunt for true love or some other bullshit!"

The gross office was thick with grime and discarded mass processed food packaging.

"Most of you little shit stains are hopped up on xeno boosters and blood brains stims, end up killing the target and about half of the hab-block the dumb bastard lives in… Shit kid what the fuck can you even do?"

The Fat man slides across the coffee strained piece of paper he had been scrawling on. He rests the pen by a blank spot sitting next to the Skill: designation.