I stood behind the tree, hands in my pocket, collar pulled up high. Would I ever get used to these miserable Earth winters? I doubted it. I’d asked for my next assignment to be somewhere warmer but my request had gone unheeded.
I looked across at the white car where my next victim sat. James Peterson – a lowly civil servant who regularly took to his car at lunchtime to eat his chicken paste sandwiches and drink lukewarm coffee from a flask.
James was a loner. No friends. No family. The ideal host.
By midnight his body would be my new home.
Picture courtesy of Dale Rogerson
Another 100-word story for Friday Fictioneers.