2007-10-25 3:51 p.m. This guy was a top-notch assassin. Seriously big. They started a magazine for assassins because they wanted to put his picture on the cover. Which they did for the first five months. Not enough assassins subscribed, so the magazine went under, but you can find them on eBay. Filed under Collectibles. They did a gimmick cover with the third issue and shot through the stacks of printed magazines with bullets. Every magazine was unique, drilled through with the random paths of bullets. I always meant to subscribe, but the thing that slowed me down was that the subscription form said I could either pay by check or credit card. And it was a card. Can I staple a check to it and send it back? No. Do I feel comfortable putting credit card info on a card and mailing it like that? No. And I didn't have any envelopes big enough to fit the card. Years have passed and now that I'm older, I realized I could have folded the card in half. That would have done the trick. Would have fit right in the envelope. I remember that when I was garroting a target, because it takes awhile, I would think about how I would look on that cover. "10 Ways to Garrote in the Dark" it would say, and I could give tips and tricks. But this guy was on a whole other level. In the editorial column of each issue, the editor would give a list of the names of former staff members who had given their lives trying to interview the guy. Every time they tracked him down, he'd kill them. The guy was pure class, though, because the bodies of the journalist-assassins would always be found with their pockets full of international currency, way more than enough to bury them and take care of their families. I saw him once. From across a room. It was sort of embarrassing, because it turned out we had both been hired to kill the same industrialist. The guy had made a lot of enemies. He would compete for government contracts to build smelting plants and would make sure to hire the relatives of people who had bid against him for the contract. There were a lot of suspicious smelting-related accidents-- meltings, pourings, scarrings, de-limbings-- and a high proportion would happen to the poor relatives of other industrialists. It got to the point where industrialists were hiring their second cousins as HR professionals, or whatever, just to keep them from being attracted by the smelting factories amazing benefits program. So this guy, this top killer, he sees me behind a curtain in the industrialist's living room. He's been standing there the whole time, his outfit perfectly matching the guy's wallpaper, but he moves a little so I can see him and we have this moment where our eyes meet. I almost dropped my garrote. Such warm eyes. The industrialist was on the couch between us, watching an explosion-filled movie, drinking brandy and arranging imported Japanese figurines around on a coffee table. Girls with blue hair in crazy poses, high kicks and panties, handcuffs and eye patches. So what could I do? I stayed behind the curtain. I watched the guy melt like an ice cube to the floor, so slow that my eyes kept blurring waiting to spot movement, like I could have fallen asleep waiting for it to happen. But finally, he made it to the couch and he grabbed the guy's jaw with one hand and rammed his other hand into the guy's mouth and choked him with his own tongue. It was amazing. On the way out, he passed me and all he said was, "You're not here for an interview, are you?" And I shook my head no and that was it. We both slipped out. The guy eventually found out who I was and sent me part of the money for the job, with a note that thanked me for "being a look out," but I think it was just to let me know that he could find out who I was and where I lived. Just in case I did work for that magazine. Which I didn't. I never even subscribed. |
1. today is nice 3. happy yesterdays 8. thanks for hosting 4. doing other things |
(Proof that I am the only one reading.) |