Has to be nerves.

Cool water splashed Raistline's flushed face. Beads of water slowly trickled through his beard, dripping to the basin below. He stared long and hard into the eyes reflected in the mirror.

Your a killer. Military trained. You've lost a fight with a Dark Lord and still survived. You can handle this.

Through meditation his breath slowly calmed. The prep talk completed, mind set on the mission, he pushed himself from the counter. Turning, he eyed his prey.

Without emotion he donned the plastic gloves. Methodically, he laid down the plastic guard on the table to insure no bodily fluid would stain the table. Callously he lifted the body to the table, withdrawing a knife from his belt. Reaching slowly down he cut.

Raistline’s robed arm covered his nose as the smell wafted to him. This was the part of the mission he knew would be the hardest. Determined hands worked. Another cut of the knife, the body kicking furiously before him. The body screamed, anguished at the torment Raistline pushed on it. Slowly the knife slid from Raistline’s hand to his belt.

Viciously, dispassionately, he tore the soiled cloth still clinging to the body. Discarding it and reaching left, Raistline grabbed the fabric meshed device. Slowly he held it out towards the screaming body, preparing to wrap it above its kicking feet. A warm wet stream splashed upon his face, soiling the locks of his hair.

This is the last time I baby-sit for anyone.