Mr. Mustache Can Keep His Money

The man with the gun was freezing. God, was it cold for April. He pulled out the photograph the man with the mustache had given him for the job. He had to make sure this was the inn--way too cold to try again with another building. This was it: the Gasthof zum Pommer. The man looked at his pocketwatch. 6:28. Just a few more minutes, and a woman would bring the baby to the window he faced.

Why was he even out here, anyway, the man thought. Sure: he needed the money. 100,000 gulden, all ready for him. But why was he out here, ready to do something so heinous for just a bit of money? He had carried out hits before - him and his rifle - but a baby?

The man with the gun thought back to his conversation with the man with the mustache. The man with the mustache couldn’t tell him much, but he said it was very important that the child die. “It’s so that he won’t...,” he said, trailing off.

“So that he won’t what?” the man with the gun asked, confused.

“Nothing. Nothing. Just do the job.”

At last, the man with the gun saw him: the little baby boy in the arms of a woman, cradling him gently by the window. The man readied his gun, and aimed. His finger rested on the trigger.

No.

He threw the rifle away.

I can’t. Not a baby. Mr. Mustache, Mr. I-can-afford-a-camera, can keep his money.

The man stood up, and walked toward the inn like he were merely passing by. As he got close, he said to the woman, smiling, “What a beautiful baby. What’s his name?”

The woman smiled back.

“Thank you. This is little Adolf. Adolf Hitler.”

_

297 words.