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"I used to be somebody once, goddammit."

The reflection in the mirror stares back, a prettied-up rabbit who I barely recognize as myself. It looks unconvinced. And who the fuck am I kidding? An adjunct creative writing professor at a community college is hardly 'somebody.' Between old fucks who can barely string two sentences together and think they're fucking Bob Dylan, young barely-out-of-high-school and probably should have given up on any future teenagers, not to mention the shit pay, I had nothing going for me. For all I'm worth in my 'normal' life, I might as well be a fucking prostitute.

My burner flip phone buzzes on the dresser. I pick it up and look at the address. I heave a sigh and pocket the device, then grab my bag of toys and leave my apartment. There's work to be done.

It's hard to believe that I've been at this game for a year. When I went on Craigslist looking for a change of pace, I didn't expect this. Hell, at first I thought it was a joke! But no, he was dead serious. I never got a name, just a burner phone, an address, and a short set of instructions.

Thinking back to that first time still gives me shivers. One doesn't just come to this kind of work naturally, or at least that's what I tell myself to convince myself that I'm not a fucking psychopath. The first time was the hardest. From there, it got easier. Now, it's just a job. It's what I do. It pays the bills, at least.

That first month after was the most stressful of my life. Did I do enough to cover my tracks? Was I going to get the police banging down my door? But nothing of the sort happened. The money cleared my account - fifty grand, more than I made in two years of teaching - and life went on. Well, for me, anyway.

It's surreal at times, living this double life. I catch myself looking into furs' eyes as I walk down the street, and I ask myself, 'do they know? Do they know who I am? Do they know what I do?' I look just like them, and yet I'm so far removed I might as well be an alien species. And meanwhile I kept up my adjunct job, a decent cover for my second career. Can you call it a career? I don't fucking know anymore.

The sun is just setting as I pull up to the address, warehouse in some half-abandoned industrial district. I take a moment to look at myself in the rearview mirror.

"You need to stop."

The phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and checked for my next instructions. I nod, return it to my pocket, and get out of my car. I grab my bag and take a moment to admire the orange and purple haze of the sky. I can't linger long, though. Moving on autopilot, I climb into the beat-up sedan the text message told me to take. Keys are in the ignition. A stickynote on the wheel gives me the next address. The engine sputters, then roars to life, and I'm off again.

If anyone else knew what I did, they'd think I was crazy. What the fuck kind of person does this? Before I started, I would have been just as baffled. But it opened doors for me. Seeing the seedy underbelly of the city had been revelatory. I published my first collection of short stories just a couple months ago. Genre fiction, horror, almost a mix of Poe and Stephen King. It was cathartic in a way.

A couple weeks ago a crime journalist got in touch. My stories had interested him in what I thought about the latest crime wave plaguing the city. I gave him my best answers, speaking broadly about the philosophical justifications, that no one is innocent. Did I think the criminals was wrong? Yes, of course, but who in this world today is without sin? I joked about an unpaid parking ticket, which cut through the tension.

I pulled up to my destination, a skeevy motel on the edge of the city. My phone buzzes. I pull it out and look at the message. A room number. I know the drill. I check my hair and makeup in the rearview mirror. I looked like a right fucking whore. Perfect. I get out of the car and grab my bag. This is it.

The chill of the evening bites my nearly-bare legs as I walk down to the prescribed room. I knock three times on the door. It opens, and I walk inside.

"Goddamn," comes a husky voice. "You look just like a real woman."

His words bite into my flesh, tearing at something deep inside me. I want to scream, 'I AM a woman, you fucking PRICK!' but that would blow my cover. No, I need to put on the act, lure him in. I've lost count of how many times I've done it before.

I put on my best sultry face as the suited deer closes the door behind me. I wrap wiggle my tail and drop my bag. "I heard someone's been a bad boy..."

"Oh yes... v-very bad," he pants. He's practically drooling. Before taking on this job, I never thought men actually DID that in real life. But I guess they fucking do, the animals. They might think they're superior because they can walk and talk, but they're no better than a fucking bird, a fucking turkey.

I grab his tie and lead him over to the bed. "Well, then, why don't we let this tranny 'punish' you, hm?"

He follows along like an obedient puppy.

It's so easy now. I turn off my emotions, play the role of the prostitute for this sick fuck. Like all the others, he lets me tie him to the bed. He isn't concerned. I get the blindfold on, his wrists securely cuffed to the headboard. Off come his pants. A throbbing erection greets me. Little, like his respect for me.

"Mommy has a special toy," I whisper.

"Oh gods yes," he pants.

I go into my pack and pull out my tool. At first I thought that using a stop sign was ridiculous. Then cliche. Now it's a comfort, feeling the cold metal, the hard wooden handle.

I climb back up on the bed and straddle my target. "Are you ready?" I whisper.

"Yes." He's drooling, from both his muzzle and his dick.

I raise the sign high. Off goes any feeling or remorse. Four words slip unbidden from my lips: "You need to stop." I feel the weighted sign come down. The first blow knocks him senseless. Then comes the second, the third, the fourth. By strike fifty, his face is no longer recognizable as such, just a bloody mass of flesh and bone and sinew. My work done, I throw the sign down on top of him.

A year ago I never would have thought that work like this would come so easy. I look around the room, clean up any traces of my fur. My tools return to my pack. I hop in the shower to wash off the splatter - there's always so much - and change, stowing my bloody outfit in my bag.

The rest is automatic. I drive back to the warehouse. Drop off the car. My client will take care of it. He always does. I get back into my car and drive home. I don't think about what I just did. It was only a job. In a day or two, I'll have my next paycheck in my account. So long, student loans. In a year or two, I might even be able to buy a house and retire, put this life behind me and write the stories I want to write, in ink rather than in blood.

I know I need to stop. But until they do, I won't.