Assassin Retired

I have never been a fan of stories that begin with once upon a time.

However once upon a time I was the 3^rd most sought after assassin in the world.

Only John T “The Gentleman” Morgan and Clifford “Sudden Death” Belchere have more confirmed hits.

 I am a big fan of “The Gentleman”.

Morgan is an old school artist.

I really admire his work.

 I am not as much a fan of the Haitian.

Oh he will definitely put down his target, but I think he lacks finesse.

Not to mention the hit that incapacitated me; that motherfucker finished it.

It should have been an easy elimination.

No muss no fuss, no struggle.

A freaking televangelist. The television preacher supposedly only had his church members working security, so I have no idea why the chief of security was so good.

I had blended into the crowd for the Sunday service, the client asked that the hit be messy and public. I planned on killing the charlatan as he preached “The Word” right on National Television.  I played the role of a cripple flawlessly my blades tucked into my cane.

I rose with the congregation in song. I waited for the fat showman to ask for people to come down to be prayed for.  I had mapped my escape, I planned on putting my 9 inch blade into his heart and being out of the sanctuary before anyone noticed.

The large bald man at the preacher’s side, seemed to know that something was off about me.  I have never seen a man that large move that quickly before.

I was disarmed and the big bastard had cut the nerves in my arms and legs leaving me flopping on the floor. The cameras that had just been focused on the “Reverend Doctor” were now focused on me trying to rise off the obnoxious purple carpet in vain.

Me, Joaquin “Espectro” Cardenas! Thirty seven flawless kills.  Flopping around atop his churches emblem I have seen myself on cable news at least a thousand times since. My fellow inmates at The Federal Correctional Institution in Marianna Florida tease me about it.

The doctors have sewn my nerves back together but I won’t ever be able to do the fine detailed knife work that I once did at will.

My walk is very distinctive now. I doubt that I qualify as “the Spirit” anymore I couldn’t sneak out of an earthquake.

Fortunately, my attorney has convinced the judge that I was just a crazed fan.  I won’t be in prison long. I have money saved and hidden all over the planet.

Three more years. Actually 38 months.

38 months and I will be back on the street. The first thing I am going to do is find that head of Security and put him down.

It’s the only thing I live for, I fight hard to gain my strength again my physical therapist says he’s never seen anyone so determined before.

If only he knew. I exercise long after my session is over I pull myself up on the bars on the recreation yard over and over despite the agony that each move floods me with.

My people will locate the former Security Chief, and whenever I return to the street, his days will be limited.

I don’t really ever have to work again.

I have always been frugal, even though my fees have made me a very wealthy man.

Prison is full of braggarts. A bunch of losers who think that they shouldn’t have lost. I listen to my fellow prisoners. I pretend that I don’t understand a lot of the conversations here. I wonder how the Russians would react if they knew that I understood all of the things they say in my earshot, or the Chinese, or the Koreans. I speak 22 languages, but it’s easy to convince everyone that I am a simple minded Mexican who was fascinated with the preacher.

I saw the way that the Haitian butchered the television minister. Even I have to admit it was a thing of beauty. Impalement on the neon cross of the Sanctuary.  Nice one Belchere nice one.

My arms have gotten stronger, I am tempted to start a fight just to see if I am still as lethal as before. I bid my time.

It’s prison after all and someone is bound to do something that earns them a one-way ticket to the land of the dead.

I had a visit today.

A visit from one of the last people I would have expected. Death himself.

The Haitian somehow got in as my new head shrink, I can’t help it, I’m starting to like him.

I can’t believe he offered to take out the Security chief for me. Simply out of mutual respect, yeah the Haitian has more class than I gave him credit for.

I won’t be needing his help.

Even if the bodyguard kills me, I will die the way that I want. Facing an enemy who is actually good enough to kill me. What more could anyone in my field ask for? Violent people tend to die by violence. I have always suspected that I would die at the hands of a foe. The guard seems like a worthy one. Even that Haitian phantom respected the bodyguard’s prowess.

19 months. I am stronger than before my injury.  My arms and legs feel like they are made of the same brick and metal of the penitentiary.

I have killed. The Aryan Nation is down two of its shot callers.  My client was the son of a very wealthy actress.

The Aryan’s sodomized him. I don’t feel sorry for him. He should have been tougher.

Money, is money though.

Money dictates that the racists die.

That is all that matters to me.

I’m trying not to make this about revenge. I am trying to find any other excuse for killing the late Reverend’s bodyguard. I have never killed anyone for personal reasons before. I guess there is a first time for everything.

10 months. I have located the bodyguard, he lives outside of Atlanta a small town called Hiram.

His record seems underwhelming. Former Marine, former boxer, former prisoner, nothing says that he should be good enough to have presented a challenge to two of the most formidable death dealers in the business.

5 months. My sources tell me that the bodyguard has left Hiram. He is now working for a Saudi Prince? Something in the milk is unclean. Maybe I need to reconsider.

I am free.

The bald man is in my sights.

As soon as take off the safety it seems like he is looking in my scope.

He disappears from view.

I’m breaking down my rifle when I hear a deep bass voice.

“You should let it go. If I had wanted the damage to be permanent it would have been.”

Yeah, either this guy is amazingly good or I have lost a step either way. I am retiring.

Cuss Words

When I was a kid I spent most of my days running and playing in the woods behind my house.

I could, would, and did stay in those woods for hours.

I also loved a good book. One of my favorites was The Three Musketeers.
I didn't have a lot of friends at that time, but the story of such endearing and lasting friendships touched me.

I practiced my sword many days in those woods, I probably had slain every tree in a few miles radius.
I had just been punished for my recent watermelon caper.
I didn't tell you that story?

 Alright, so next time I am going to tell you how a dog snitched on me in the watermelon caper. Tonight I am going to tell about and the first and last time I cussed at my daddy.
I had a few shows that I liked on television series like Star Trek and Buck Rogers in the 25th century.
One day I found out that coming to television was something truly worth watching. The timeless story of The Three Musketeers.
Now, in my household opportunities to watch television were few and far between.

We had two religious events outside of our house each week, at least one at our house and on those days no television.
I knew that if a show was on one of those nights I was not going to see it. I didn't complain about that. There was no point complaining anyway, that was like complaining about the sun being in the sky.
As a result, I rarely got excited about anything that was in the T.V. guide.
I knew from personal experience that playing sick wasn't wise.
So when I discovered that the movie was coming on, that Saturday.
I got excited. Very excited.
That Saturday I was snuggled into the carpet ready for my show.
Suddenly my Father says in that, Clint Eastwood, Morgan Freeman voice. "Everybody get dressed we're going to town."
The hell are we going to town for?" I  wondered.  Town held no appeal for me at the best of times. 

I really didn't want to go that day.

My Father was not the type of man that you questioned. 

Throwing on my husky jeans a generic polo I thought, about how I didn't ask for much. 

I did whatever my parents asked and I hadn't poached watermelons in months!

My siblings and I hustled into my family's Caprice Classic.

We hadn't gotten far when my dad asked the car as a whole car; "Is everybody happy back there?"

My brother and sister sensibility replied yes, not me, I said, "No!" with all the venom and bass I could generate.

My father adjusted his rearview mirror so that he was looking directly at me.

"I said is everybody happy back there?"

His tone remained even but I knew he was angry.

I matched his anger. "And I said NO!" He didn't seem to be getting my point so I needed to impress upon him how much this meant to me, so I decided to give him the few cuss words I knew. I had no skill at cussing at the time so I just gave him my best three.

 "Shit, Damn, Ass!"

 In case he hadn't heard me the first time I repeated it, again and again, getting louder each time. "SHIT, DAMN, ASS!"

As my curses reached their loudest my father calmly pulled to the side of the road and beat the shit out of my damn ass. That whipping made me not want to ever watch the three musketeers, and I have not since.

No matter how many versions have come out. 

The Barn

I approach the massive doors.
 The lumber has become grey, warped,and brittle.
 The old timber still houses the scent of the livestock that once occupied this space, the earthy pleasant aroma wafts through the cracks and spaces, as my sweaty hands fumble with the key.
The chain holding the door, is ancient and I realize I should have gotten some oil, or spray lubricant to resurrect it.
 Orange flakes of oxidation, fall to the pungent black earth.
Splinters of microscopic metal particulates force their way into my fingertips, white blood cells rush to the offenders and  begin the process of eviction.
 The padlock has to be twisted back and forth to expose the key hole. It's rusty also, so rusty that the taste of metal overwhelms me and I am forced to spit the fine grain of invisible metal out.
 I am second guessing my decision now. The prehistoric padlock, doesn't unlock, so much as it surrenders, It's job complete, the contraption falls into separate pieces. The door hesitates, it has been closed so long that it has forgotten it's function. I grunt as I push the door to its furthest point.
The interior of the old barn is anticlimactic, just hay bales with mushrooms growing at their base, ceilings so high that it would appear that the barn was made for creatures far more massive than bovine, equine or swine. The last vestiges of an apple harvest line one wall, the thing that used to be a basket has merged with what once were apples and lived and died here. I hear the rustle of leathery wings,  right before the disturbed colony of bats take flight.
My eyes follow the nocturnal creatures as they flow through the door. Yeah, this is perfect. I am glad I bought this old barn. I am going to create my masterpiece here.

Comfort Zone

The Toyota Prius looked out of place besides the prison guards 4X4's, and customized Impalas. Tonya Morningside and Yolanda Fielding are both nervous as they walk into the penitentiary. 
They have come to The Parchman Penitentiary Farm to interview Mr. Claude "Smiley" Jenkins. His refusal of a Governor’s pardon should have been big news and one of the experienced reporters should have taken this story. However two terrorist attacks, and more Presidential shenanigans by the newly elected alcoholic in D.C. have all the top reporters occupied.
However this is a piece the papers owners want covered so the junior reporters are on their way.  The electronic buzzing, the slamming of metal bars, and the constant screaming and catcalls grate both women’s nerves as they are lead to the interview room.
Smiley is earning his nickname as the two young women are lead into the room.
He stands and the knit hat with a faded M.D.O.C. is snatched off and folded into his hands behind his back. “Hello ladies, how y’all doing today? It’s a hot un anit it? Y’all forgive me if I am running on I anit had no company in a while.”
It’s an understatement Tonya knows from doing her research that Smiley has not had a visit in 7 years.
His dentures fit badly and the older man tries desperately to keep them intact.  Smiley’s sense of pride and concern with his appearance is evident from his gleaming state issued boots, and the defined crease in his uniform. Claude could easily pass a military inspection.
“I reckon y’all is here cause I turnt down the governor’s pardon?” The inexperienced pair simply nod, and Smiley has to remind them to turn on their recorder.
“Listen it seem to me like y’all gals is new ta this reporting thang, I am gone help ya stead y’all axing me questions I’m tell you my story?”
The old man doesn’t wait for a further prompt. He begins his tale.
Nineteen hundred and 69 I was bout 24 or 25. I had worked all day hauling pulpwood. We had managed to get 6 loads that day and I was getting drunk. All a sudden like this gal I had been courting comes up to the café, now I weren’t the jealous type and I always reckoned my woman could handle her own scandal, if’n it get mo than she can handle then she ought call me. Well this ole pretty boy fella he keeps sniffing after my gal and like I say I’m just seeing how she gone handle thangs. Well I see this fella go to man handle Nadine. That was her name Nadine Whiterspoon and she was finer then young mosquito’s mustache. Well this fella I anit know his name till we came to court, but this fella he grabbed her by her lady parts and well I sliced him up pretty bad with my razor.
I kilt again in here these two fella’s thought that I might make a good substitute for a woman, I kilt both them sum bitches with a shank I had made outta broke mop handle. They gave me another life sentence for that.  My son Claude Junior was made right over yonder in the tunk houses. I got his momma pregnant on a conjugal visit. When he was 20 he came here. We was in camp together a few years ago. He is on lock down now, he kilt somebody during visitation for calling his sister a bitch. She anit wanna see me without him so when she come up here she normally only visit him. I promise you honey I’m getting to the point.
The point is I’m bout to be 65 years old. I don’t have nothing or nobody in the free world. I am like everybody daddy in here. I am respected and I know what to expect. Take for instance today Friday. We gone play dominoes till supper and supper is gone be baked chicken with rice and greens and cornbread. Lockdown is later tonight so the youngins gone be singing and rapping and then in the morning it’s Pancake Day.  If I go out in that free world what I’m supposed to do? I anit got no money my people anit got no money and who gone hire a 65 year old with three bodies under his belt. I’ll tell you who No and Body. Nah. I’m fine right where in the hell I’m at. If they want me out of here they gone have to force me out.
The State decided to do just that force Smiley out of the penitentiary.
Smiley now has four bodies under his belt.

Wrong Place Wrong Time

She had gotten tired of the dreadlocks that her mother had cultivated since before her first period. Shaquana, hadn't realized just how much of her hair would have to be cut in order to rid herself of the distinct style. She had wanted to be less conspicuous and definitively African-American. 

Shaquana, hated her name and insisted that people call her by her last name, London. It sounded more Anglo to her ear, and less likely to reveal her ethnicity. Of course the short nappy afro that replaced the magnificent locks, was still a dead giveaway. 

Shaquana, was a reformed thot. She had been wild in college and had the tramp stamp tattoo to prove it. After another failed relationship, and having to raise a special needs son alone, she was angry. Her anger was reflected in all of her dealings. 

Shaquana, believed that she had found a Niche in corporate America. She believed that her job as director of operations, was the door to her dreams. No matter who she offended stepped on or terminated she was determined to make this opportunity work. 

At the office she was firm and fair, in her mind. Her people described her as petty, spiteful, and vengeful. Her professionalism wasn't nearly as apparent, as London liked to believe. Any man placed in her department soon found himself transferred or unemployed.  London's immediate supervisor stood between her and the scrutiny of the Human Resources dept. 

John Johnson, had just gotten placed on London's team and the cramped fit was instantly clear. Johnson was the type of employee who read the handbook from cover to cover, that overdressed every day, and who required minimal direction. 

Outline Mr. Johnson’s duties and he would perform them admirably. Not only did John not require much direction, he could not thrive with an excess of it. He had been fortunate enough to be hired while London was at a management retreat and then on a two-week vacation. He had only had to deal with her for a single day. 

London’s vacation brought its own brand of stress. She wasn't able to afford the getaways that her coworkers enjoyed. She had even overheard her “underlings” talk about the exotic destinations they went to. She had adopted the “underlings” phrase from O'Toole her supervisor. 

O'Toole was the type of gay man one expected to be in a position of authority.  He wasn't over the top and flaunting of his sexuality. He realized that if you want to be treated as an equal, then the same behavioral expectations must apply. 

A straight man who paraded around the office making sure everyone knew he was heterosexual would be reprimanded and he believed that a gay person who drew attention to their sexuality should be treated the same. 

So it came as a surprise when O'Toole acted like her girlfriend on the retreat.  The retreat had been the best part of the entire three weeks. The company had paid for the management staff's accommodation. Other management employees complained about the tawdry round “bungalows” with the thatched roofs, London found it magical.  

The free drinks and seafood from the grill were awesome and London allowed herself to relax a little bit.  O'Toole relaxed a lot. He got really drunk and loose lipped, and he made London his confidant. They both slept with peers from different areas.

London spent the next two weeks at her mother’s house in Savannah, Georgia and was reminded of why she had left.

 Her return to the job was actually welcomed after the week with her mother. 

London strutted into her office space.  Her sister Shequisha had braided extensions into her hair. She was feeling herself more than ever. London had poured over her department's progress the night before and noted that her new employee had broken her productivity record and then broken his own. 

 She wasn't impressed, despite the fact that it was making her money London was upset.

It didn't help that she suspected that she had developed a UTI.  She needed to establish the pecking order and let this John Johnson know where the buck stopped. Normally she would walk over to her “underlings” desks just to stand over them as she spoke to them. 

She decided to have Mr. Johnson come to her. His line was busy. “He wants to play!” London, buzzed another subordinate the one that sat in the cubicle next to John's. “Please inform Mr. Johnson that I need to see him in my office!” 

It was a full hour later, London was seething. She hadn't made a single collection call. Johnson still had not come to her “Office” the largest cubicle, on the 6th floor.

The cubicle that Johnson had chosen wasn't in the direct line of sight of hers. However each time she buzzed him his line was busy.

London, was quickly becoming Shaquana. She was angry that this Man who was attractive, articulate and obviously good at his job, was still out of reach. Mr. Johnson was married and he seemed to be the loyal type. On top of that he was defying her.

 Her underlings were supposed to jump whenever, wherever, however and as high as she demanded. Shaquana expected a certain amount of respect. This Johnson fellow was getting too big for his britches.  

Shaquana, quit calling, she signaled the worker next to Johnson and cancelled her request. She used her access to look at the time sheets for the two weeks she'd been gone. Nothing. “Maybe, I can write him up for clocking in too early” 

London realized that she couldn't do that.  She did send an email to the entire dept.

”Hello team y'all are clocking in a little early you are expected to clock in no more than 5 minutes before your shift. In the future this will be cause for a write up. Thank you for all that you do.

Sincerely Shaquana London” 

John Johnson’s phone remained busy. He was having an awesome day. His productivity was off the charts. John had noticed that the entire office temperature had changed as Ms. London returned. He didn't care, he was only there to perform his job. The email bothered John when it arrived. 

 It was directed to him, and in direct violation of company policy. The policy dictated a smooth hand off of the phone system. The policy stated that an employee was “Expected to arrive 15 minutes prior to their assigned shift to assure that no incoming calls are missed." 

John, replied to the email that London had sent. He copied and pasted the company policy into his email and continued to make collection calls as he composed and sent the brief reply.

Angrier than ever, London decided to go confront him. "Mr. Johnson!" London, was prepared to start an entire speech, when the offending underling held up his hand to silence her.  "Yes sir I understand that, but how much are you going to be paying today?" The question was part of the script that London's employer had been using since before she started but she had never heard it asked with such sincerity and feeling. Part of her screamed, "This dude is doing the job, leave him alone!" But the irritation in her genitals, and the fact that this was her department made her continue. "PARDON ME MR. JOHNSON!"

John tried to keep the irritation off of his face as he asked the customer he was speaking to, to please hold. Even as he said it he knew that the man he had bullied into grabbing his card would hang up before he could return to the line.

"Ms. London, this better be important I just lost commission that was going to benefit both of us." Even as he said it the light that indicated that he had a call on hold switched back to green indicating that the prospective bill payer had disconnected.

"Oh no he didn't!"  Shaquana, thought as she arranged her thoughts. "I wanted to discuss my email!" John breathed deeply before responding.

"Yes ma'am, I responded to that email...via email. I am trying to collect another $3000 before the day's end. Is there something other than a clear violation of company guidelines to discuss?" 

The man's bored tone coupled with the discomfort in her thong, were more than Shaquana could take. "First of all I will decide what company policy is and what isn't! Secondly why did you feel the need to address that email to the entire department? Third, how can you be so busy that you can't respond to your BOSS?"

John Johnson's face was incredulous. He thought about what he was going to say before he said it and was unapologetic. "You are not my boss, company policy is clearly lined out, and I simply responded to the email you sent. I don't have the time or the inclination to deal with childish ego games, I am here to make money."

Unable to obtain the upper hand London returned to her desk seething.

The next three weeks Shaquana’s other employees had it easy. All she could focus on was causing John Johnson to fail.

She had no legitimate reason for wanting the man to fail. His success was key to her making money as well.

John knew that Ms. London was trying to make his life difficult. He didn’t know why. He needed to make money bills were piling up and Child support was threatening to take his driver’s license. John was putting up astronomical numbers because he couldn’t afford to do anything else.

London had changed John’s schedule and he still made money. She cut his hours, changed his call sheets, and gave him the most difficult collections John made the most of it.

Everything came to a disastrous head one Wednesday afternoon. If he hadn’t just spoken to his ex-wife who had kidnapped their son and moved him across the country, it might not have happened. If his current wife had not sent the angry text message it might not have pushed him to the edge.

If traffic hadn’t sucked, if coffee hadn’t spilled on his tie, if his underwear weren’t tight, a million small irritants had converged to make it the perfect storm.

For her part London’s UTI had gotten worse and was causing her to have an unpleasant aroma, her obsessive behavior towards Mr. Johnson was affecting her productivity and were it not for John Johnson her pay would have been suffering.

Shaquana was supposed to be leaving for a Dr.’s appointment.

John was coming into the job. He swears to himself even now as he is serving time for it. Promises he didn’t intend to push her off the cross walk. It was an accident he is sure, just his large shoulder brushing against her and causing her to fall the 6 inch heels couldn’t have helped either.

He simply spun around as she started yelling and was too close to her, he tried to catch her as she back pedaled off the bridge spanning their building and its nearest neighbor. 
Just the wrong place at the wrong time.