A Story That Has No Point

Fleetingly I wondered if this was the end to the bright start.
Mind you, a house that smells of car refreshers and my grandma’s fridge wasn’t the most successful start to a day. In fact, you could say it wasn’t most planned.
Not that planning would have helped.
As the Yiddish saying goes, ‘Man plans, God laughs,’ -  and boy, does He ever.
I think his laughing so hard, with such enthusiasm and vigorous force that every person on Earth could feel his tears of amusement falling, dropping on the contour of their heads.
We just pretend to call it rain.
That’s when God laughs harder, and created ‘thunder’.
I narrow my eyes at Him. When I get there, he better have that promised LCD tv screen. There’s nothing like watching Friends on a full high quality Samsung. No one does it like Samsung.
“Shrimp, wake up!” My friend nudges me, knowing that in my current state I may as well be in a Sex in The City movie and wouldn’t notice. You might be wondering about my name, Shrimp, which isn’t actually a name but a code –
Funny. It kind of all engineered from a code.
Not the fantastic type of code, though. Not the “Drop your weapons, code X!” kind of thing. Just something that started out of boredom, out of an empty void of a life.
Did I tell you that boredom gets you into all kinds of troubles?
For example, the trouble I am in right now. A psychopath is kind of, somehow, holding me prisoner.
“I will kill you both – and after I kill you, I will drain your body of blood and send all the pieces of your body to your loved ones.”
Right. I didn’t mention he was a serial-killer.
“It will be appropriate for Christmas, don’t you think?”
Kind of a lunatic too.
“Maybe I can put 8 candles as well. Wouldn’t want to risk offending a Jewish family.”
Lunatic is a stretch, really. His deliriously mad.
My friend, Laya, nudges me with her elbow, clearly sensing the laughter I'm holding in.
"Any last wishes?" He laughs maniancly, as if someones filming this sequence. As if his going to win an oscar or something.
I cought to  hide my chuckle, but he notices it and glares at with me with eyes that perhaps may rival my mothers.
....Nah....
"Do you dare laugh in the face of death?" He asks, voice patronizing.
"If death has your face, no wonder the expression 'dying from laughter' was created."  I mutter, hoping he dismisses it and opts to start a criminal-mad monologue. You know, the ones that they do on tv- talk about the people they killed, talk about their plans and their future as psychopaths. Surprisingly, these aren't women, but men. You'd expect a woman to ramble on about her not being listened to, not a man.
"Have you been listening to me?" He narrows his eyes, determined to find an ounce of fear.
"No. Been imagining you in a tutu, though it's only entertaining if it's pink." I say, frowning upon my realization. My friend, who happens to be a gorgeous single woman, sighs loudly.
"For once, shrimp, I'd like to get a job done without hearing your well-rehearsad jokes." She says, theatrically whipping her golden tulip hair. I itch to touch them, and perhaps would have even it weren't for me being tied down to a chair.
"Give me some credit - it takes time to remember some of these." I reply, staring blankly at the blood stain behind the killer - counting the deaths behind it. The place was a wreck, but it seems like a typical day of our job.
"That's it. I am tired of being ignored- of being treated as something that's less of a - " The murderer began saying, but was rudely interuppted by Laya's knife in a juncture vein. Clean, quick, effective.
"Job done." She said, exasperated by the long day she had.
"Awh, it was getting to the good part though." Narrowing her eyes at me, she cuts loose the chains from my wrists. You see, Layla has this Hudini talent of escaping what seems to be the inescapable. What I have is the talent to lure all the murderers into a trap. It's my charm, go figure.  That's what makes me and Layla such great partners, though. My patience to prolong and carry out the mission and her impatience to beautifuly end it. The murderer's body - what was his name, anyway..Ivan? Steve? Bob? - was crumpled on the floor, cold and lifeless. In a miserable fetal position, staring upwards as if begging for an exit - a way to end.
Guess he feels like he won the lottery now.
" Two more to go, and bye-bye government." Layla suddenly says, breaking me out of my muse. She can be as quiet as a bat, she can. I remember the first time the government took me from the looney place - aka, home sweet home, mental asylum. My family prefered to believe my mental issues were the cause of my killing for a hobbie. Doesn't really make a family proud when you bring a jar of blood, I suppose.  Anyways, I remember the government's hope-filled promises of escape and of us only having to comply to a certain amount - and I remember them finally showing me Layla. I was awed by her, but even my best pick-up didn't work. I reacall the fingertips, the blood tests - the code names. Layla's face was crumped up in fear, but I could see determination in her eyes.
"I'm hungry." I intruppt their procedures, and