interview with a hitman: นี่คือโพสต์ที่เกี่ยวข้องกับหัวข้อนี้
When you kill someone, a part of yourself dies along with your victim.
It was my first job, a routine assignment for an experienced hitman, but very intimidating for a rookie like I was. Some guy downtown had grown to big for his boots, proven the old crim saying “People with baby teeth are more willing to lose ’em”. He was a nobody who thought he was somebody, and he needed to be taken down a couple’a notches to his funeral casket. So there I was, fresh outta dropouts-ville and strapped for cash. I was always a bit of a troublemaker, vandalism, binge drinking, assault, peddling soft shit like weed and shrooms, nothing special. Never killed a guy or lifted a finger on a lady, I aint a dog. Never needed to anyway, the ladies loved me; dunno if it was the bad boy thing or my smooth charm. Couldn’t have been my looks, by the time I turned fifteen i looked more like Lurch off the Adams family than your typical teenager.
Shit, Adams family. My favourite show. When I was a kid, when I still lived with my folks I used ta watch that show religiously. My favourite TV show in an age of colour television, internet and cheap sex was a black and white family sitcom. I didn’t care, back then I was still naïve, still had parents who cared for me. But anyway, I’m sidetracking. Point is my childhood was not a pretty one, and it seemed I broke nearly every rule, chipped away almost every part of my humanity except for that one, last shred of decency.
My hands were clean of blood.
Ya’know, it’s funny when I think about it now. Back then when I was a kid and you offered me ten grand to off some low-life bastard who beat on his hookers and felt good about it afterwards, I would’ve asked whether ya want him to die slowly or quickly and in a way, that’s what happened. Now though, I’d think long and hard before comin’ to any conclusion. So anyway I was runnin’ low on dosh and no shopkeeper in their right mind’d hire a kid like me, and I don’t blame ’em. Didn’t know what to do so I started calling in favours from everyone I knew. Now, the people I knew loved receiving favours but were slightly hesitant in repaying ’em. I’m sure I don’t have to paint you a fuckin’ picture when I say hesitant. Guns in my face were the least of my concerns. I’ve been stabbed more times then I can count, mauled by rabid dogs and, I shit you not, a fighting rooster. Don’t laugh you sunnuva bitch, those things are fucking vicious! I went over to Rooter’s joint one time and asked for some if the money I lent him back. I gave him about two hundred, and all I asked was half of that. He’s the fucker who let his rooster on to me. That thing was pecking and jabbing all over the place, nearly lost an eye! My ankles were pissing blood along with my arms because I had tried to protect my face and balls from attack. It was insane, a story that I’ll be telling my grandchildren, although slightly edited of course.
There was this other time also where, I shit you not someone came at me with a fuckin’ samurai sword. This bitch was waving it around, screaming at me to get off her property before she cut me up real bad. I don’t think it was even real, the woman was deluded. I wanted to speak with her boyfriend, but the pussy sent out his woman instead. Cowardly fuck. Owed me only fifty bucks.
Suit yourself. So where was I? Oh yeah, the job. I’d been working myself up to do it for about a week. There wasn’t any time limit, which was rare because people who hired hitmen weren’t the patient type, after all, they couldn’t even wait until the poor bastard died of old age or disease. But there I was, twenty-two and planning to kill someone. How I got the job’s a funny story too. I was on the front yard of another prick who owed me some money when I heard some gunshots from inside the house. I think I actually shat me’self then and there. I mean I had heard gunshots before, but never this close, this personal. I didn’t know what to do. My first instinct was to run, but my feet didn’t agree with me. There was one more gunshot and then silence. After about five minutes or so with silence from the house, I decided to investigate. How stupid I was, but then again I never would’ve become what I am today if I hadn’t, so I suppose it was a good thing I did that after all. I went inside and looked around. The house was one of them commission homes, very plain and it had only the most necessary things. The kitchen was clean, along with the living room, but when I got to the bedroom I emptied my stomach right on the cream coloured carpet. It was a mess. The room was freckled with blood and brain shit that came from a body on the bed. It was female and she had a nice body, but there wasn’t enough of her face to tell whether she had been pretty or not. Someone had emptied half a clip into her face from close range. It was an absolute mess. I walked out and went into the next bedroom, but by then I knew what I was gonna see.
I managed to put two and two together. I figured that the lady had been this guys lover, but she had been cheating on him with another, or maybe some other, guys. In his rage he must’a unloaded his pistol into her and saved one for himself in the other room.
These things happen all the time, y’know? You just get used to it as a part of life. I mean, I was scared, don’t get me wrong, but all the stories I’d heard, everything I’ve learnt and experienced, it just allowed me to get over it quickly. The funny part was that the guy had been a hitman as well, but he had the contact details of his employer and his mark on one sheet of paper in his room. I did some searching around, looking for anything valuable- yes, I did rob the house. The guy did owe me after all, I thought I’d collect the debt with interest. I came across this guy’s name ‘Jerry Dawkins’.
Can you believe that I didn’t even know this bastard’s name? I lent him money and I didn’t even know his name, only where he lived. But I s’pose that in the end that’s all that mattered, where he lived. I could call him whatever I wanted.
Anyway, his mark, and mine from that point on, was his brother, Tony. But that aint the end of all the fun. I went flicking through his deceased missus’ mobile and found a whole heap of steamy sex messages from Tony to her. Seems like this girl was a fan of the entire family though, because I found some from a Brandon Dawkins and even a Lucy. Woulda liked to see that eh?
Eh don’t worry about that. If you haven’t noticed…
Before you get any ideas, they were here before I moved in. That’s why the rent is so cheap.
So yeah, I find his employers contact number and I ring him up. Course, I didn’t know this guy had been hired to kill his brother, and it was dumb luck that I called up this guy before his brother. I don’t know exactly why I called, though. It seems stupid to me now that I think about it. What was I going to get out of it? Was I trying to do something well-meaning? No idea. But even though I had been brought up on the street, witnessing a murder can never be fully forgotten. Not by a nineteen year-old kid, anyway. So I called the guy and after talking to him for a little while I managed to extract an offer from him. Ten grand to kill the guy. I accepted like any poor kid who was three dollars away from living in a cardboard box would. No, I wasn’t living in a cardboard box thankfully; a couple of my bros managed to get jobs and rent out a place. I crashed at their joints for a couple of weeks at a time. Good people, I won’t forget it. I took the job and then I shut down for a week. I withdrew and thought about what I had agreed to do. I agreed to kill somebody. Fucking kill someone. A guy I didn’t even know. But it was ten grand, a heap of money to a kid like me. So I thought, and thought, and thought some more until I finally got the nerve to pick up a gun and just do it.
That’s how it was supposed to go. Quick and easy. One shot. But it didn’t happen that way. You know why?
Because he was boning a chick. I broke into his house one night, it was a fluke that no-one saw me, and crept up to his bedroom. I knew it was his because the light was on and you could see it from the gap under the door. I swing the door open like a maniac, no longer caring for stealth and wave my gun around, looking for some place I should aim it at. I find the dude’s head but it’s blocked by this broad’s naked back. Killing one guy was already more than I could bear so there was no chance I could bring myself to shoot the girl as well, so I ran. I don’t think he saw me, and if he did I don’t think he cared. After all, what better way to die than in the middle of orgasm?
I didn’t kill the guy, and I didn’t stop running until my lungs nearly exploded. I ran until I found a big building I could hide in, because at that moment I was terrified that the guy had called the police and they were already after me. Guess what building I ran into? A church. A fucking church, of all places, I mean come on. What are the chances? I’m not a believer, but I tell you that night I think someone or something was looking out for me. Think about it. The lady he was fucking, the church, the gunshots that should’a scared me away but didn’t, I think they were fuckin’ signs telling me not to go ahead with the shooting, and you know what?
I didn’t. It was my first and my last. Now that’s gotta count for something right? Like I said, when you kill someone, you kill a part of yourself as well. I’ve lost so much’a me already, I don’t think I can afford to lose anything else.
[Update] Interview with a Mexican hitman | interview with a hitman – POLLICELEE
We agree to not reveal his real name. He wants me to call him George, but he slips some information about his identity,
He sits in front of me, crosses his legs and places the Israeli-made 50-calibre handgun on his lap – the cannon pointing at me.
“Does it make you uncomfortable?” he asks, smiling sarcastically.
I thought to myself that it wasn’t the first time I’ve had guns pointing at me, but it was the first time I was interviewing a Mexican hitman with a gun on his lap. A chilling thought crossed my mind: perhaps in a few hours someone would be killed with that same weapon.
The lights are on, the cameras ready to roll. It’s hot in the basement and the hitman sweats profusely. He’s never been interviewed before and says he’s nervous.
“My boss told me to come and talk to you,” I tell him. “It’s OK,” he says, but under one condition: we won’t go over details about the organisation he works for, who his boss is or any information that could put his life at risk. I agree, for his sake, and for my own team’s security.
We agree to not reveal his real name. He wants me to call him George, but he slips some information about his identity, boasting that everyone on the streets of Culiacan calls him “Diablillo” or Little Devil. It’s a nickname that actually suits him well after having spent the last 11 years of his life going all over Mexico on a killing rampage … or so he says.
‘I really don’t know’
“How many people have you killed?” I ask. “I really don’t know, 80? 100?” It could be many more. He says he stopped counting years ago.
George is a 26-year-old hitman, a “sicario”, as hitmen are called in Mexico. Since he was 15, when he began killing people for money, he’s had a clear agenda: to protect his boss and collect debts owed to the powerful drug trafficking organisation he professes loyalty to.
George was born and raised in a small town known as Badiraguato, the cradle of most of Mexico’s drug cartels. Our contact says he belongs to a family of a “legendary” drug lord from the state of Sinaloa. Guns and narcotics were commonly found around the ranch house, as rice on a kitchen’s counter.
“I was raised in a ranch where we ‘grow’ drugs – everything from poppy to marijuana. That brings in a lot of money and power,” he says.  And, it’s implied, killing people is part of the family tradition it runs in his blood.
George says he’ll do anything to show his loyalty to his boss. “I have killed friends, family members. You see, this is a business and they failed to comply with the business they failed our boss and orders are orders. In the end, we don’t have a heart.”
One would think that George is a typical mean-looking criminal, the type authorities usually parade for a press photo-op.  But he’s not. He’s a bit short, chubby and smiles easily – he almost resembles a child having fun with his toy gun.
As I was watching him, I turned to the door where a man in his early 30s was standing still, looking at each one of us in the room, vigilant. His eyes were cold, impenetrable. I have seen that look before in other conflict areas … death is written on them. He is George’s zealous bodyguard. He moves slowly, with his right hand always inside a blue sac hanging from his shoulder. He’s holding his gun, ready to shoot, I believe. He knows that if something happens to George, he’s dead.
In this world of Mexican “mafiosos”, loyalty is leveraged by money. And money is what gives “third-tier kingpins” like George, power.
Money not only buys allies among traffickers and corrupt authorities it buys what criminals like George are willing to die for: expensive SUVs, gold chains, women or turtle boots, like the white ones George is wearing for the interview.
For killers like George, business is good these days. The turf war in Mexico gets bloodier every day. Drug lords are showering their hitmen with so much money they can be confident that anyone who interferes with their businesses will likely become a lethal target.
“I got paid $100 to kill a general and $70,000 for a senator,” says George. I can’t verify if this is true. But I am curious to know how much a journalist like me is worth in Mexico. So I ask the question: How much would you charge to kill a reporter? He pauses, looking at me straight in the eyes and replies: “About $1,000.”
Life in Mexico has no value. George assures me that he no longer charges for killing policemen. He just does it because it will win him the respect of his boss and that of 18 young hitmen who follow him, protect him and kill for him. Among them, two 12-year-olds, who by the way, he says, have already killed four people altogether.
Many of these kids, or sicarios, are poor young Mexicans who didn’t have many choices in life. Unemployment is high and poverty affects millions of people in this country. Before settling at a job for less than $1 a day, like millions of Mexicans, many of these youngsters prefer to join the ranks of the drug cartels and get enough pocket money to get them through the day.
But George’s case is different. He tells me he has $1.5m divided among bank accounts in the United States and hidden safes. And he says wants to make more because “it’s not about having money anymore, its about power. How much power do I want to have? All the power necessary to live my life however I want”.
Always on the run
This statement, however, is a fantasy. George cannot live the life he really wants “in peace”, as he says. For months he’s been sleeping between three and five hours each day. Never on the same bed. Always on the run.
I ask him how long does he think he will live? “I hope for long, but right now I live day by day, perhaps I go out now and get killed,’ he says. “My life is pending from a string because I have a lot of problems.” He has sowed many enemies.
He takes a sip of water and wipes his head. “It’s hot here in Culiacan, the streets are very hot”.  He means dangerous, violent. Fighting has become vicious, there is no compassion and no space for remorse.
The violence is at an unprecedented peak and George is one of thousands of Mexico’s violence masterminds. “That’s what I do. That’s my job, I go after debtors. I kill them.”
And you torture people, too, right? “Of course,” he answers cooly.
I ask him if he’s not tormented by his victims’ pleas for compassion. “If you can believe me, no. I get energetic, I get like adrenaline, and when they start to shout I feel anger,” he says.
“The more suffering I inflict on them, the stronger the adrenaline. It’s like an adventure. Torturing people takes the stress away from me.”  Really? I can’t help feeling my own words tripping and I can’t help asking him why doesn’t he go jogging instead. No joke.
I can tell that he really feels no remorse. “It’s too late. At this point in my life there is no way I could go for another job,” he says. “I am confined to it. I am only waiting to get killed and when the day comes there won’t be any compassion for my life because I’ve done a lot of damage.”
The only way George says he can stay alive for a while longer is if he maintains his hitmen’s loyalty, if he feeds their appetite for a fast life, providing them with women and drugs … if he can make sure he won’t miss a shot. It’s either live by the gun or die.
And he can only do this with money. Lots of it.  There is a saying in Mexico: “Even a dog dances for money … but without it, one dances like a dog.”
In the end he looks uneasy. It’s not the heat.  We’ve talked for over an hour. “You are torturing me with your questions,” he says. “And the person who actually tortures people here is me.” By then I thought … lets just leave it at that.
Pretty Woman • It Must Have Been Love • Roxette
Soundtrack from the 1990 Garry Marshall film \”Pretty Woman\” with Richard Gere \u0026 Julia Roberts.
นอกจากการดูบทความนี้แล้ว คุณยังสามารถดูข้อมูลที่เป็นประโยชน์อื่นๆ อีกมากมายที่เราให้ไว้ที่นี่: ดูความรู้เพิ่มเติมที่นี่
Genovese Mafia Hitman Anthony Arillotta Tells His Life Story (Full Interview)
Anthony Arillotta came through for his firstever VladTV interview, where he spoke about growing up in Springfield, Massachusetts, and his father owning a successful produce business. He went on to detail his brushes with the law starting around 15 and escalating to a gun charge that landed him in prison by 21. Anthony also spoke about his association with the mob and becoming a made man with the Genovese Family, and how he found success in New York. During his time with the Genovese family, Anthony spoke about his ongoing brushes with the law and how he was taken down by the feds. To hear more, including regretting joining the mob, hit the full interview above.
5 CRAZIEST Reactions Of Convicts After Given A Life Sentence (Part 2)
Narrated By: Ty Notts
The Mexican Cartel Chainsaw Murders | The Story Of Felix Gamez Garcia \u0026 Barnabas Gamez Castro
Do you like to shop on Amazon? You can greatly support my channel by using this link to access Amazon! https://amzn.to/2uJ03Wy
To Donate https://www.paypal.com/cgibin/webscr?cmd=_sxclick\u0026hosted_button_id=VR9SL9VJU6NUC
The microphone I use http://amzn.to/2HrMQWz
DISCLAIMER: This video and description contains affiliate links, which means that if you click on one of the product links, I’ll receive a small commission. This help support the channel and allows us to continue to make videos like this. Thank you for the support!
Theme from Interview with a Hitman
นอกจากการดูบทความนี้แล้ว คุณยังสามารถดูข้อมูลที่เป็นประโยชน์อื่นๆ อีกมากมายที่เราให้ไว้ที่นี่: ดูวิธีอื่นๆLeather
ขอบคุณที่รับชมกระทู้ครับ interview with a hitman