Philo's Stories


cw: murder, violence, transphobia

her shovel parts the peat covering the bog easily to reveal the murky water beneath
the corpse slides through the hole with a soft splash, never to be seen again

she kneels and folds the peat back to where it was and returns to her car, a long black sedan that's distinctly out of place on these forest roads

a week later, her sedan rolls up to a gas pump at dusk
she thinks about how much she'll enjoy slitting her next victim's throat as she chooses a blade from the veritable armory hidden atop her car's spare tire and slips it down her knee-high high-heel boot

an hour with a 500mm f5.6 telephoto lens looking across the street shows her where her target is: 10th floor, 3rd room from the elevator
in a week, that man and his extremely transphobic rhetoric are poised to be elected to the Senate in a landslide

her goal is to prevent that.

the suitcase she rolls behind her is empty, but she's practiced at moving as though it isn't
it'll be full when she leaves - she never leaves a mess

the lock to his hotel room answers smoothly to her lockpicks and the deadbolt isn't even engaged

to her, it's a bit ironic how someone working to make trans people live in fear isn't afraid himself

he hears the click of her heels on the floor of the hotel room and whirls around
"what do you want?" he asks, shaking as though she was an alien monster about to eat his face

"what do you think I want?" she answers coolly, deeply enjoying the fear on his face
"my policies are *correct* and you are not going to change them"
as he says this, her hand is a blur pulling her blade

seeing the light glint off her knife, he looks around the room, panicked, and runs for the window
as he fumbles with the latch, she strides towards him, her steps seemingly measured to make him even more afraid

"you can't get away from me that easily. this is the tenth floor and it doesn't open that far"
when she gets this into it, she kinda scares herself, but she also feels *incredibly* hot and powerful

before he manages to get the window even a bit open, her hand is on his wrist dragging him towards the bathroom
he flails a bit, but her grip is strong and she drags him into the shower

she holds the blade against his throat and he gets in one last retort

"do you have the guts to do it, you trans coward?"
"the weakest trans person has more guts than you ever had"
she smiles as she leans her full weight onto the blade, cleanly slicing his neck

she turns on the shower and the cold water rinses the blood away

with a contortion that he wouldn't've survived if he was still alive, she packs his body into the suitcase

she heaves the large black suitcase into the spacious trunk of her large black car and drives off into the night

unlike her last victim, he is not going to vanish without a trace; his body is going to leave a message
she's not collecting her usual briefcase of cash for this either; some jobs are important enough to do pro-bono

the rope she uses to tie his corpse to a tree by the highway is dyed in the alternating pink, white, and blue of the trans flag
the message she leaves is clear: death before detransition, and it isn't going to be her or her trans siblings' deaths

she checks her clothes for bloodstains and heads for the nearby home of one of her girlfriends
she leaves the next morning before the news of the Senate candidate's death has hit the radio stations her girlfriend listens to

she doesn't think she can feign ignorance of this killing well enough

the life of a hitwoman is a lonely one full of secrets, and she's long since resigned herself to only confiding in the music she blasts at 80 miles per hour

she puts on an old west-style dress in the bathroom of a truck stop in the middle of nowhere before her next job: a safecracker who betrayed their heist crew and will be visiting an old west reenactment town

she polishes her six-shooter with the hem of her skirt before concealing it in her bodice and driving off


this piece was inspired by this picture of @mikurubaeahina