The sad Hitman / Pt. 1

Antonio was his real name, but everyone referred to him as Big Egg. The reason behind it was always a mistery to me; even if my boyfriend had once tried to explain, my attention was squarely on an issue of Sixteen magazine at the time, and after that, I was too scared to even ask again. I guess it doesn’t really matter.

My upbringing was deeply rooted in Catholicism—complete with an all-girls Catholic school and a household that considered the Pope practically infallible. That's why a relationship with a pot-smoking, rock concert-attending, long-haired boyfriend felt like pure adrenaline. What I hadn't anticipated, however, was the darker side of his world, a reality that included individuals like Big Egg, a professional hitman, and many other particular characters. But we will focus on Big Egg for now.

The first time I encountered him was at my boyfriend's house. Big Egg arrived with a large stash of pot—more than my boyfriend could normally afford. But he wasn't there to make a sale. The saying goes, "misery loves company," and it seemed Big Egg was a profoundly miserable individual.

My teenage years were filled with rebellious tendencies, though they manifested mostly as sassy retorts to my parents or dying my hair purple rather than engaging in drug use. When Big Egg offered me a hit, I declined. His unkempt appearance—grimy, oil-stained hands and yellow teeth—combined with his shabby attire dissuaded me from indulging my growing curiosity.

Big Egg claimed to be a mechanic, running a shop a mere two blocks away from my boyfriend's home. But when he mentioned a "boss" calling him during lunch hours, I began questioning his supposed ownership of the business. Meanwhile, my boyfriend proceeded to roll a joint, an act that I'd observed before and found intriguingly rebellious and appealing.

Pretending to be engrossed in my magazine's advice on capturing boys' attention, I tried to dodge Big Egg's unsettling stares. A casual discussion between him and my boyfriend shifted the room's atmosphere. They were reminiscing about their childhood and neighborhood acquaintances—Jody, serving two or three years for possession, and Cathy, who had caused a familial rift by having a child with her boyfriend's brother, who happened to be Big Egg’s cousin.

I was more intrigued by my magazine's piece on homemade cake pops than their silly neighborhood gossip until Big Egg dropped a bombshell. Julia, another neighbor, had hired him to eliminate her ex, Eddie, and had failed to pay Big Egg. Anger surged through him as he recounted how she refused to pay him. Julia told him she wasn’t going to pay as they’ve been friends forever and she had saved his butt many times, also, it’s not like you can rat me to the cops - she said. "I can't afford to get caught. I owe a lot in drug money, and if something happens to me, they'll go after my mother," he growled. Big Egg was planning on killing her that same night. Cake pops didn’t seem to interest me anymore.

My boyfriend reacted with unsettling calmness, offering to roll another joint as if Big Egg had just spoken about the weather. I realized he had no choice but to keep up the façade; challenging Big Egg could turn him into a potential target. We had to keep silent; neutrality was our safest bet.

Over a decade later, I bumped into my ex-boyfriend at a grocery store. When I asked him about Big Egg, he appeared taken aback. Apparently, the man's criminal activities had continued even after a drunk driver had left him wheelchair-bound. Yet, fate caught up with him eventually; someone had "sent for him," marking the end of his violent journey.