Not the Cops...

I don’t like this one bit.  Traffic is bumper to bumper, and no matter how far I move I feel like I will never reach my destination, like those days when your teacher held you for an extra thirty seconds after the bell rings, and throws your schedule off. So now you’re the last person in the cafeteria line. This might be ten times worst, because the longer I’m in this car the worst I feel about this drop. I mean, the money drops locations are never this quick.

NEVER.

Usually, you have to wait 24hrs, sometimes even 32hrs before you get paid. So for the phone call to come through and m bad days of lunch I’m driving in this shitty traffic to get the rest of my money. Yes, contrary to popular belief, we don’t get paid before the job. Usually it’s a weird set up for us to pick up our money, I blame the movies.

One time I had to break into an apartment and retrieve my money from a window ac unit in the second bedroom. One pickup I had, if I didn’t open the briefcase locks in a particular order, the room would explode, the last time I work for the government. So I get to the train station, and I go to the fourth bathroom stall from the left (see what I mean).

I get there, and low and behold, my gut tightens up. Now I have a rule, always trust your gut. Most assassins have certain quirks that we use to assess a situation. or some it’s a pair of socks, some a rabbit’s foot (which is odd, because the rabbit is dead),  some even take pics of the real family with them to decorate their work area. But every assassin has a quirk, and mine was going ape shit.

So instead of the fourth stall where I was supposed to find the place for the money drop, I go into the sixth stall, the handicap one, which is always the cleanest one for some reason. I lock the door and make my way into the ceiling panel. Low and behold when some old woman walks into the fourth stall, right passed the sign that says out-of-order, the Feds storm into the bathroom. I mean, they stormed the bathroom in some MIlitary titanium looking shit like they were expecting the Terminator. I’m not going to lie, it made me feel good inside. At least somebody around here knows who the fuck I am.

So after they beat granny up, and I do mean beat granny up. When they take her out, I crawl off into a ventilation shaft and end up in the airport break room. And I storm out, super pissed. Now you think I would get stopped and asked a lot of questions, but no, I grabbed some paper towels and bawled them up under my stomach. Everybody thought I was just another angry teen mom. Oh yeah, did I mention I’m only 17, don’t tell anyone.

So I finally get outside and I tell you, I am so pissed tears are streaming down my face uncontrollable. I couldn’t believe someone would set me up, and not just set me up but call the Feds. Now it’s one thing to set someone up, but the Feds. I mean, not the cops, but the Mother FUCKING ( eat your heart, bury you so deep that your soul can’t escape) FEDS.  And for the record, nobody, and I mean nobody wants the FEDS around them, not even their kids.

So I hop on the phone and call my handler Sammie, she answers the phone with her heavy Bronx accent. What do you want, she says. I really hate how Caller ID has taken all the excitement and spontaneity out of phone calls. Anyway, I tell her my situation and she yells as loud as she possibly can, “What!!!!!”. She can’t believe they would cross someone with my reputation. I tell her I can’t believe it either. So I explain how the Feds storm the bathroom.

“Did they see you?”, she says. I try not to call her out when asks me the dumbest of questions, but that’s somewhat her thing. “No they didn’t see me, I climbed into the ceiling the minute I walked into the bathroom and waited for the fireworks.”

“The ceiling?”, she asks (see what I mean). “Yeah, the ceiling, I was up there for fifteen minutes; you wouldn’t believe how many people don’t wash their hands.” She tells me to stay focused, I think she can hear me crying, which scares me, I don’t want her getting any ideas (more on that later).

She wants to know details of the drop, and how I knew they were setting me up. I tell her I could feel it in my gut, and she says, well that’s stupid, what if was something you ate.” Mind you, this is a woman who reads her daily horoscope before peeing in the morning, but my stomach tightening is irrational. I tell her I need the buyer’s location. “Shooter you can’t?”, she says. “Like hell I can’t, you do your job and I’ll do mine. Now get me the information.”

She tries talking me down, “You do this and you’ll get,”—

“I know what I’m doing!”, I yell.

She tells me to give her a few minutes. She called me back within seconds with the buyer’s location and their wireless provider. God, I love cell phones. They make it so much easier to track people, even if they switch their SIM cards. So I get packed in 2 minutes, but it takes ten minutes to get a freaking, hold on. “TAXI!!!!” Finally, one of these yellow bumper cars decided to stop. The driver speeds off to O’hare.

I can’t think of anything in the back of the cab, except how much I hate this city. To be fair, I hate all cities. After 72 hrs we all really need a change of scenery or you turn into your parents. Why do you think the cavemen were nomads. But, what’s really bothering me is that I yelled at Sammie. Frank never yelled at her, he was so patient. If he was here, he would make me apologize. I call Sammie back and tell her I’m sorry. She tells me how she just wants me to understand the line I’m crossing. I tell her I understand. Go get ‘em Shooter.”, she says. This puts a smile on my face and suddenly I feel like killing bad guys.

Tonight's News...

I’m sittingg here, flipping through the news channels, looking for the Judge. Dead fish.  Next channel, dead birds, okay, next news channel, fire at Five Star penthouse. YES! Come on, come on give me more details. The police have not yet released any other information. No! Nothing, I set a five star penthouse on fire, and you have no other information. What about the Judge and the dead prostitute?

 So now I’m suppose to believe the news doesn’t have any more information. Give me a break, they’re just trying to think of ways to spin that the Judge was found in a flaming penthouse with a prostitute and enough blow to take a sled ride down. You’re probably wondering what I did with the Judge and her friend? Well I didn’t lay them in the bed holding each other’s hand (this ain’t the Notebook).

Back to the scene of the crime.

I’m standing there sweating bullets, wondering, what to do with the bodies, before any type of rigamortis sets in and they CSI these murders back to me. That’s the kind of thing that gets you the HIT SQUAD (more on that later).

So I go through a number of staging acts in my head.  A few were, the Judge sees the chick O.D. and bolts for the door and dies, but I never got to use the poison on her, thanks to Ms.Heinz taste tester over here. Plus the bruises around the neck point to murder, a blind flat foot would know that. Then I spot the lingerie on the door, and it hits me.

The Judge likes to play dress up, so it wouldn’t be strange if she liked to get spanked also, because you can’t put anything past kinky people.  So I use the cat woman whip to tie the Judge up, and I dress the hooker (I know it’s a nasty word but she’s dead now) in the lingerie, and make it look like a sex act gone bad.

Then I place her body in front of the door, to make it look like she was going to leave before the cops found the Judge. And finally I unhinged a gas line in the back of the stove, and I turn on the fireplace.  Then I leave out the window, and scale two floors down, and in five minutes Voila. Oh, hold on breaking news headline.

The Judge was found dead, in the hotel fire…wait, that’s it, no girlfriend or acquaintance even mentioned.  Jeez, she must have friends in high places to make a person completely disappear. If that’s the case then, I will be alright, and my buyer will contact me any moment to pick up the rest of my money. Excuse me the bat phone’s ringing. Hello (speak of the Devil)…yeah, I know the place.

Time to go collect my money, I think.

Eenie, Meenie...

’m standing here in the Judge’s kitchen, eating a turkey sandwich.  Don’t worry she’s out “shopping”. Right now I’m having a hard time deciding what condiment I want to place the poison in. Do I go with the catsup (you spell it your way, I’ll spell it mine), or do I go with the relish. I’m particular to relish, so I don’t really want to taint the relish.  I think I’m going to go with the catsup, because the way this top is crusted over, there’s no way somebody will eat it after finding the Judge’s body. And yes, making sure the poison isn’t recycled is important, and no, I won’t sneak back in to remove the poison. Only serial killers wait around for cops.

So I’m sitting here adding the poison, when I hear the door knob turning. All I can think is, shit, she’s back fast. Judge must have picked up a regular; she usually tests out her product and girl before coming home.  My fault for not paying attention to the tracker I placed on her car. Caught red-handed with the mark in the same place, Frank would put a bullet in between my eyes. Their frolicking and laughter give me a chance to dart off into the bedroom. Damn, another dilemma.  The closet or the shower, the footsteps tell me, I have to pick one fast. I take the shower, seeing how I don’t remember the judge walking around in a towel too many times.

So I’m crouched low on the far wall of the walk in shower, with my knife drawn. I hear the judge yell out, Let me clean up first. You have got to be shitting me, just my luck she want to bathe. My heart starts racing, I remember my training and calm myself. This is just some unexpected wet work, we have gotten out of worst. The Judge, enters the bathroom, and opens the door to the shower. My heart is so loud, but quiet at the same time as I anticipate the Judge’s shock, as I lunge and end her life. She opens the shower door, reaches in for the body sponge. She goes to the sink. She’s just washing off; thank goodness for the unhygienic.    

From the shower, I listen as the Judge declines a hit while washing off in the sink. She finishes, opens the door and says, “That’s nasty”. The prostitute exclaims, “I love ketchup”, and all I can think is I’m going to have a heart attack.  As they fall on the bed, I exit the shower. The prostitute starts convulsing and the judge screams, it doesn’t take long for the poison to run its course, and her body to stop convulsing.  The Judge nervously runs for a phone, she starts to dial 911 but reconsiders and hang the phone up.   She begins frantically gathering her things.

I walk out to the Judge’s dismay, she knows what this is. Now I walked out knife in hand, expecting a scared kitten, what I got was a charging rhinoceros. Now I can handle myself better than most but this caught me off guard. Not only was my knife knocked out of my hand, but I hit my head on the counter and I ‘m sure I have a concussion. And from the Judge’s attacks I’m not the only one with some training. Once my head clears, I show the Judge, all her training isn’t worth spit, and dish out some justice of my own (pun intended), until putting her in a rear naked choke till she expires.

Now I got a dead prostitute from poison, and a dead judge from asphyxiation.  I am so screwed.

Patiently Waiting...

The truth about most hits is that they’re incredibly boring. At the moment I’m two stories down, watching this Chicago mark, move around their penthouse. Besides the fact, that it’s god-awful cold. Watching a mark’s daily activity is worse than watching grass grow. Half the time all they do is move from refrigerator to phone ordering prostitutes, and I have better things I could be doing than watching people snort a mountain, and roll around with cat woman.

No seriously, dress up sex.

Not to say the expression on these women’s faces when they were presented with their evening attire wasn’t entertaining, but the novelty wears off around the fifth time. You’re probably wondering who the coke snorting, call girl magnet is, well it’s a judge and she is a mean bitch. Yeah not really ironic is it, being a high ranking official is drug abusing woman beater.

 I’ve found through my line of work, the people who enforce the rules are usually the biggest offenders. Don’t believe me; remember how your parents told you not lie. Now, how old exactly where you when you found out that Santa clause and the tooth fairy weren’t real? 

Anyway, after watching someone for days at a time, you get a feel for the type of person they are (more on that later). Now, you’re probably thinking if you’ve been watching them for days, why not shoot them and get it over with. Well there’s one problem with that thought process, I’m an assassin, not a hit man. People don’t pay me to leave a blood trail back to them; they pay me to make it look like an accident.

 And the fact that this judge’s appetite for fast food is just as strong as her addiction to cocaine makes heart attack my number option.

Hollywood...

Hollywood really irks me, they have the public brainwashed into believing that assassins are 6’2 chiseled features, chain smoking, Dockers wearing, Ray ban sporting killers. I mean really Hollywood, we’re assassins, we don’t have time to cook, if we did, I wouldn’t be eating this burger. Not to say we are out of shape, because we aren’t. In fact I would say most marksmen are the best athletes on the planet. If you think shooting a game winning free-throw shot or field goal is nerve racking, try shooting a target from 500 yards out with a 5mph wind.

 But realistically speaking, there are no assassins who are 6’2 with chiseled features. Those would be underwear models, and if anyone tells you that they would rather be an assassin, than an underwear model, they are a liar or a psycho. Either way you shouldn’t be around them.

An assassin who looks like a model, pretty much goes against the whole being inconspicuous rule. Just ask yourself, who you are going to remember out of a crowd of people, the guy in Ray bans who look likes a model, or the construction worker. The model, duh. Frank Colasco, taught me everything I know, and he was the best out of three continents, and an underwear model he wasn’t.

Really it just gives insight into whose writing these stories. Probably guys that are on the lowest totem pole of the dating spectrum.  Who else would think a Calvin Klein model could kill his way through twenty bad guys, or walk into a room in all black wearing a trench coat during the summer and no one take notice or call the cops.  So Hollywood do me a favor, stop making assassins look like James Bond, because we don’t. We look just like you, which is why you never see us.

Welcome To My Life

Welcome to the truth about Assassins, and how our lives revolve around the decisions you make. So enjoy my life, and the highs and lows of taking out targets.

-Shooter-