I’m Olive Garden. Olly for short. Three-fifty-two on the airwaves.That’s how things work here, and that’s a very vague “here.” Here is everywhere. We’re big. Real big. International. Like Mr. Worldwide, but a little quieter.My line of work, you never hear about. I don’t share at family Christmas. When folks ask me what I do, I tell them sales. Technically true, if you’re willing to jump through the warped logic that gets me there.What do I sell? Depends who’s asking. Llamas. Straws. Organs. Some people laugh, other people ask more questions.”Why not alpacas?” Have you ever tried to sell an alpaca? So much harder than a llama.”Oh, those fancy reusable straws?” As if. Where’s the money in that?”Oh, like to churches?” No. Not those organs.If kids ask, sometimes I tell them. Little Billy–my sister’s infernal child–gets the truth, or at least half of it.I lean in real close to his petulant little face. So close he can smell the coffee or hard-boiled egg I just ate. Then I whisper: “I kill people, Billy. People like you.” He starts crying and runs to his mom and I’m that much happier. Never been good with kids.We don’t chat in the break room. There is no break room. There are no breaks. I don’t even know my colleagues except by their code names.Red Square. Oval Office. Porta-John. They have numbers, too. Some a fair bit lower than mine, but not many single-digits going around anymore. It’s risky business, this.Like the name suggests, it all started in an Olive Garden for me. Not life–I wasn’t birthed there to some confused Italian woman I’d someday call “Mamma mia.” I’m half Irish, half German, just like every other American claims. I digress. It was the start of this life.I wasn’t there to eat, but I ate. Sat for a while munching on breadsticks and waved away the waitress every time she came my way. Eventually, she stopped coming.Target entered after I’d been there about an hour. Didn’t even glance my way. If he had, nothing would have aroused suspicion. He didn’t know me; I only knew his face. I’d had about a dozen staring contests with his picture in the dossier. Lost every time.”Soup,” he said, like a true heathen. Stick beats soup. Stick beats you. You ever tried beating somebody to death with a soup? Can’t, unless it’s frozen. Trust me.I got up for the bathroom. The waitress looked my way, annoyed. She’d be more annoyed when he was choking on the soup, making a mess of spittle and drool all over the table. She’d have to wipe it down, move his body, and clear it for the next customer. Olive Garden style.I slipped into the kitchen.”You need help?” the line cook asked in broken English. I slid him a hundred and he looked away, busying himself with something else entirely.Spilled a little vial in that soup, and then the waitress came on by. My heart fluttered as she steered in another direction, away from the target’s table. Collateral damage incoming. Oops. Then she corrected course and my breathing settled and she placed the bowl in front of him.Soup. Rookie mistake.When I saw his mouth start to froth and his face turn red and his eyes bulge, I slipped into the bathroom to wait out the commotion. For real, this time. Damn gluten intolerance. I should have had the soup.That was then. Now, I’m the Handler. We pick up folks and I send them that manila folder with a face inside. I think back to then and wonder if they’ll have a staring contest as they look at their first Target.Walmart Bathroom. Sewage Pipe. Porta-Tom joins Porta-John. They’re a good bunch, and those numbers have gotten high. Six-hundred something will be next. They do their jobs, and keep the airwaves pretty free of chit-chat.”Kill confirmed,” a newbie will report, and Outback Steakhouse or Dairy Queen is born.But there’s never another Olive Garden. I make sure of that.I still go every week. I’m a regular, and the waitress still thinks I do sales. She still waits the same table and rolls her eyes as I munch on the fifth basket of breadsticks. I don’t eat the basket, mind you. I eat the bread.Digestive issues or not, I’m not going for soup. Too risky.Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please check out more stories at r/MatiWrites. Constructive criticism and advice are always appreciated!