I left the hotel, searching distractedly for a chemist’s or a doctor’s, but found myself focusing mainly on the subject of women, and love. I had never been with a woman for longer than a night, and they had always been whores. And while throughout each of these speedy encounters I tried to maintain a friendliness with the women, I knew in my heart it was false, and afterward always felt remote and caved in. I had in the last year or so given up whores entirely, thinking it best to go without rather than pantomime human closeness; and though it was unrealistic for a man in my position to be thinking such thoughts, I could not help myself: I saw my bulky person in the windows of the passing storefronts and wondered, When will that man there find himself to be loved?
Yes, that’s their name: Sisters. So in the old West people call them the Sisters brothers. Their profession: hitmen, and professional killers are just flesh and blood with lots, and lots of personal vices and weaknesses. They think too much. More or less morally conscious. Have big dreams. Things you won’t naturally think would find in people who kill other people for a living. Plus, they don’t really trust each other. Wrong men in the wrong place with a wrong job?
Now they’re on a mission to hunt a man. But I’m sure you won’t be able to predict what they actually will find in the end of their journey. It will be glorious and disastrous all at once.