The assassin had an open palm and a closed fist. This was a good sign, since he could accept money to use his fist. I wondered if there were any assassins left that specialized in actual fist assassinations, since common technology would mean their mark could snap a photo or two and text a “Please help this person is lethally mean” message before being taken down. My agency gave me my position to consider these types of thing before finalizing a contract.
The meeting place chosen was an outdoor bar, under an awning. The bar was made of adobe. So were the drinks, just put the adobe in a glass and add water. The assassin had taken a seat left of the bar, facing the door. He was wearing a powder blue suit with a matching tie. He had short, parted hair of the finest salt & pepper and a mustache that could be a described as a good try, at least. I approached his position, taking a seat next to him. I greeted him using our agreed upon code phrase.
The meeting place chosen was an outdoor bar, under an awning. The bar was made of adobe. So were the drinks, just put the adobe in a glass and add water. The assassin had taken a seat left of the bar, facing the door. He was wearing a powder blue suit with a matching tie. He had short, parted hair of the finest salt & pepper and a mustache that could be a described as a good try, at least. I approached his position, taking a seat next to him. I greeted him using our agreed upon code phrase.
“You’re the guy I pay to do murder, right?”
His reply was curt: “You can pay me to do anything. I’m just best at murder.”
“Oh good,” I responded. Here was a man of business and practicality.
The assassin, whom I dubbed Bluit, for his blue suit, had previously been vetted by my agency. It was my job, on this particular day, to make sure he had kept his lies in order. No one gets ahead in the agency by telling the whole truth.
I asked him, “How do I know you’re the right man for the job?”
Without batting an eye he pulled out a card. I was intrigued, perhaps he was one of those flashy trick assassins. They love to leave a special calling card, like a rubber ducky or a witness. MY agency preferred to send me, and others in my position, out with only the skeleton of our missions. Discovering the details kept us sharp.
Before I could speak, the card was in my hand. The business card had a cartoon smiley face with two Xs for eyes on the front. I flipped it over to reveal 9 stamps. Bluit was one job away from a free lunch.
“You must be a hungry man,” I said to him.
“I don’t know if you’re being literal or trying out a metaphor,” he said. “You should really be more clear.”
Irked by his lack of appreciation for my wit, I cracked open my briefcase and handed him the document from within. “This can’t be the right target” he stated, breaking from his straightforward behavior.
“You had better believe it” I told him. “This is what we need and we know you’re the man to take care of it.”
He shot me a look of acceptance, followed by a stare of contempt. I tore up his card and sprinkled it in a ritual circle around myself.
Bluit quickly rose and exited the bar with the speed and precision of a man tearing out the ground from below his own feet.
The fastest way to make an enemy is to starve them of something that is theirs by right. My agency was tired of paying for free lunches, and had needed this assassin to take out our top secret sandwich vendor.
Enjoying the hum of the bar and kicking my feet up onto the empty chair, still warm with Bluit’s sudden resentment, I dumped my drink onto the table. The dirty adobe was malleable, and I started to build a muddy castle. I’d see Bluit again, no doubt. I’d try to have a snack for him, though. He’s an assassin, not a monster.
His reply was curt: “You can pay me to do anything. I’m just best at murder.”
“Oh good,” I responded. Here was a man of business and practicality.
The assassin, whom I dubbed Bluit, for his blue suit, had previously been vetted by my agency. It was my job, on this particular day, to make sure he had kept his lies in order. No one gets ahead in the agency by telling the whole truth.
I asked him, “How do I know you’re the right man for the job?”
Without batting an eye he pulled out a card. I was intrigued, perhaps he was one of those flashy trick assassins. They love to leave a special calling card, like a rubber ducky or a witness. MY agency preferred to send me, and others in my position, out with only the skeleton of our missions. Discovering the details kept us sharp.
Before I could speak, the card was in my hand. The business card had a cartoon smiley face with two Xs for eyes on the front. I flipped it over to reveal 9 stamps. Bluit was one job away from a free lunch.
“You must be a hungry man,” I said to him.
“I don’t know if you’re being literal or trying out a metaphor,” he said. “You should really be more clear.”
Irked by his lack of appreciation for my wit, I cracked open my briefcase and handed him the document from within. “This can’t be the right target” he stated, breaking from his straightforward behavior.
“You had better believe it” I told him. “This is what we need and we know you’re the man to take care of it.”
He shot me a look of acceptance, followed by a stare of contempt. I tore up his card and sprinkled it in a ritual circle around myself.
Bluit quickly rose and exited the bar with the speed and precision of a man tearing out the ground from below his own feet.
The fastest way to make an enemy is to starve them of something that is theirs by right. My agency was tired of paying for free lunches, and had needed this assassin to take out our top secret sandwich vendor.
Enjoying the hum of the bar and kicking my feet up onto the empty chair, still warm with Bluit’s sudden resentment, I dumped my drink onto the table. The dirty adobe was malleable, and I started to build a muddy castle. I’d see Bluit again, no doubt. I’d try to have a snack for him, though. He’s an assassin, not a monster.
