Marilyn

Rolla (1878) - Henri Gervex (1852-1929)

Time to leave, unnoticed via the balcony and fire escape. No man could want more than to awake beside such beauty every morning, and yet, one man had decided not to.

The Organisation supplied photographs and pertinent details. I shuddered when I saw her photo, but not because of her celebrity; I had never killed a woman, I was a killer of men. I was a lover of women, but I could not refuse the contract.

Her name was Marilyn. She was an actress, drank to excess and slept around. She had become a liability to her husband, a politician aspiring to high office. Like the other Marilyn, she had become a political embarrassment that had to be neutralised.

I trailed her for several days awaiting my chance. She stayed at The Grand and in the early hours sat alone at the hotel bar. I approached and bought her another Martini. We chatted and laughed and drank and flirted.

It was an unforgettable night. She proved to be a passionate lover of sex. Her slender neck snapped like a dry twig, the gleam in her eyes snuffed like a candle. My consolation was that she died happy, in the throes of orgasm but I felt remorse that she would never again illuminate the silver screen. The world was an uglier place without her beguiling vivaciousness and beauty.

I hoped to be favoured with her husband's contract one day.