BANG!

 

His last bullet pierced the flesh of a dirty, nameless woman. Her body plummeted to the ground like a wet, moldy piece of cloth.

That’s the last one, thought the assassin. And that was fucking lucky. I’m out of ammo.

He let the gun fall to his feet and lit a cigarette. He took a drag and gave a painful sigh. His cancer-infested lungs ached with every breath. Every smoke seduced death into taking a step closer. Doctors gave him six months if he quit, two if he didn’t. The news passed him like a gentle breeze; he acknowledged its existence but refused to do anything more. He knew his body would start biting back after all the years of abuse it had to endure.

It’s not like they serve organic green tea smoothies in the bars I go to, he thought as his right hand scratched the skin over his heart. He could feel its irregular beating. For a couple of years now, each day had been worse than the previous one, but he decided long ago that the sharp scythe would not greet him in a used and sterile hospital bed. The only times he daydreamed of welcoming the grim reaper in a hospital gown was so he could turn around and tell it to kiss his ass. It was an amusing thought, but he knew his place was among the corpses, hidden in the shadows and doing the dirty work of the only people who matter.

The night air was heavy with the stench of gunpowder and fresh blood. In the distance, the sound of police sirens could be heard.

Here we go then. I do hope they’re not overzealous cops; or even worse, criers. They’re not going to get it. No one outside my world will understand my toil. I can almost see the headlines ‘monstrous mass-shooter kills entire village.’ Actually, that’s not half bad. Maybe I should have been a mediocre journalist. Maybe it would have been a better way to hide the truth.

 

The truth was black and difficult to digest. He only knew a part of it, but it terrified him deeply nonetheless. But what scared him the most was the part he didn't know. He had a gut feeling there was something rotten, hidden very well under a thick carpet.

Two weeks before, someone knocked on the door of his crappy apartment. He opened it to find a tall, muscular man handing him an envelope.

“Is this the invitation to your wedding? Oh, you shouldn’t have. I always knew you and Jimmy made the perfect couple. Where is he?” asked the assassin taking a step forward to check out the hallway.

“He’s waiting in the car. Don’t push your luck. And here is your payment,” said the big man, handing him a thick brown paper bag. “Don’t fuck it up, or it’s your head. And it will be my pleasure to remove that fat head from your skinny body,” he added.

“Have you ever considered a career as a poet or a public speaker perhaps? Because you have such a delicious way with words,” said the assassin taking the money and the envelope.

“I hope you fail,” said the man through clenched teeth and walked away.

“Should I make the vase in mauve or magenta?” shouted the assassin after the man.

There was no response. The assassin closed the door and lit a cigarette.

“They always send the idiots with the lowest level of people skills to deliver. Why not a nice blonde or, at least, a cute dog,” he said after the first drag.

He sat down and looked at the envelope. It had no name or any signs written on it. He smelled it. It had a faint scent of tobacco and mint. He knew who it must be. He ripped it open. There was a fake passport, some pictures of a few average looking people in a tight embrace and a doctor’s note with something written in a sloppy handwriting.

“So, I’m crazy with proper papers now, huh?” asked the assassin while he was frowning, trying to decipher the words.

Between two pieces of slick, black cardboard there was a note. It had few words on it: the name of the town, the date, and a swift order “NO ONE IS TO LIVE; ESPECIALLY HER”.

Her who? thought the assassin, but as soon as he re-read the name of the town, he knew why they wanted him to do it. He tossed the note on the table and let his body sink into the couch. This was his chance to find the missing piece of the truth.

Fuck, she’s going to be a hard bitch to kill, he thought.

 

He looked around at the corpses of the villagers. The hardest to kill were the kids. Even he had to turn his head when he pulled the trigger. But he couldn't risk leaving any opened eyes. He didn’t know what they knew and who might want it. After he was done with his cigarette, he used the lighted butt to set fire to the places over which he had previously poured gasoline. The houses burned like torches in the night. For ambiance, he thought.

He continued walking and burning random stuff, as the sound of inevitable punishment grew louder in the distance. He coughed and walked to one of the houses in the center of the village. He pulled out a rusty key from the zipped pocket of his leather jacket and opened the door. He looked around before stepping in.

“Why the hell did I look around for? Who am I expecting? The tooth fairy? It’s not like they send a ghost to grade my work,” he said out loud, annoyed by his own suspiciousness. 

He closed the door behind him.

“Honey, I’m home,” said the assassin cheerily. “Did you miss me?”

A bloody body, chained to a chair was barely breathing.

The assassin pulled a chair in front of it. The open wounds on his right leg and left arm made him twitch with pain.

“I ain’t got much time, so just tell me why they gave me a fortune to make a spectacle of myself and cover your death in so much blood. I suspect they didn’t tell me everything.”

There was no answer.

“Don’t make me beg, now. You know I hate begging women to give me what I want.”

The body began to breath heavier, making a noise that almost resembled a laugh.

“If you want it that way,” said the assassin getting up. “But don’t say I didn’t want to be civilized.”

With his good leg, the assassin kicked his prisoner in the shoulder. A screeching sound was the response, a noise that a wild animal makes when cornered.

“After everything we’ve been through, you’re still so stubborn. I have like half an hour to live and you can’t find it in your cold heart to tell me.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s too late. They’ve won,” said the prisoner, raising her eyes to meet the assassin’s.

“So you can speak. I thought they might have cut your tongue out to make you stop telling all your stupid jokes.”

“If they haven’t done it to you in all these years, then it’s probably not in their procedures manual.”

“You do have a point,” said the assassin laughing. ”God dammit, don’t make me laugh. It hurts too fucking much,” he said holding his sides.

He got back to his seat and lit a cigarette.

“Now please, I’m all ears.”

“You know. Don’t even pretend you don’t.”

“I don’t pretend. If I knew, you wouldn’t be alive now. So don’t even for a flying fucking second believe there is more to your current breathing condition than my curiosity. So just tell me. You know I’m not the kind of man to ask twice.”

There was a long moment of silence. The assassin took a thick rope from the table next to him and made a nod. He put it around her neck.

“Now, you know how to stop this. Just say the magic words I want to hear. And I don’t mean ‘glitter dance of friendship',” said the assassin. He started pulling slowly at the rope, making it more and more difficult for the prisoner to breathe. She started choking but didn't talk. The assassin pulled tighter until she almost passed out. He let go.

“So?” asked the assassin.  

“Everything was a lie,” she said in a raspy voice, still searching for air. “The war is a fucking cover-up. They just needed a distraction to get those fucking rocks. All those innocent lives were for the rocks.”

“What rocks?”

“They found a source of very efficient energy. They knew they couldn’t just mine for them without the other side finding out. So they just went to war. Did you really think this whole thing was about freedom and all that crap.”

“Do you have proof?”

“Not anymore. They ambushed me and got everything. They killed the others. I barely escaped with my life.”

“And they needed to get you and make it look like the act of a madman.”

“I was so close. So close to ending this despicable war,” said the prisoner, tears falling from her face.

The mere thought of the word made his blood boil with rage. The war had been going on for so long that almost nobody remembered the days before it. He had lost so many brothers and sisters to the uncertain bullets shot by young hands. He had accepted to work for them just to get away from those dark trenches, filled with despair and defeat.   

“Fucking hell,” said the assassin looking outside. “I didn’t kill so many people for nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means I’m letting you go. You still have a shot to end this pointless war.”

“So you believe me?”

“I believe you enough not to kill you. I’m dead either way, so I have nothing to lose.”

The assassin got up and unchained her.

“I just killed too many innocent people for them. Take this as my redeeming deed; if there’s a chance to stop this pointless bloodshed, then I’ll do my best to help you. They’ll expect to find you somewhere around here tied up and dead. But they won’t think I’d dare go against orders. It’s going to be a couple of hours until they get here, so you’ve got a head start. Here,” he said, throwing the stack of money on a nearby table. ”But I’ll take this.” He picked up one of her guns and walked to the door. He turned around one last time. She was already on her feet, whipping the blood from her face. Apparently the almost dead thing was just an act, he thought looking at her.

“We could have been a great team, you know. I’ve always thought that. Too bad we ended up on wrong sides,” said the assassin.

“Life is rarely what you want it to be,” she replied.

“You’re too smart for this shit world. I’m glad you convinced me not to kill you. Hope it wasn’t a mistake. Good luck,” he said, closing the door.

Outside, the angry shouts and the sound of sirens were almost upon him. He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt away. The amber paper died out in a small puddle of blood. His wounds reminded him his time was almost up. He limped to a small hill near the road. He knew very well he was going to be the scapegoat in this whole situation. He wasn’t oblivious of his role. But he was an assassin. He had the dignity of death. He would not beg for unworthy mercy or run to prolong his moment before punishment. His right hand felt almost complete with a gun.

Aaa, guns. My one true love, thought the assassin.

As he walked with great difficulty, the image of a stubborn teenager formed in his mind. He was barely seventeen when he discovered what he was meant to do. He didn't desire it, nor did he feel guilty. It was just as it was supposed to be, the gun enveloped itself in his hand; its metal tentacles dug under his skin and controlled his fingers. As a child, he had been trained to command the strings of a violin, but they found their purpose when they pulled the trigger. Even after thirty years, he could still feel the gun’s weight in his palm. When he shot the bodyguard of a mafia leader, he felt the child inside him die the moment the body hit the floor. It was frightening, but at the same time immensely powerful; like he alone could change the world and make it obey him.

He was an assassin, a hit man, the garbage man of the underworld. He was not the perfectly built, impeccably dressed, Victoria’s angel fucking, Aston Martin driving, BBC speaking gentleman that silly boys romanticize to be. He was a nameless, faceless, ruthless machine, perfectly honed to kill. He was a silent reaper with an unmarked weapon; the black ghost everyone refused to acknowledge.

He saw the headlights of a police car. He stopped and took a long sigh. He didn't fear death. He'd seen so much injustice and cruelty in his time that he no longer believed in judgment. His life had been made up of blood and money, a world of perpetual running, constant uncertainty and never-ending bullets. He had seen and heard it all. Life had no more tricks with which to entice him.

The lights blinded him, as the car stopped.

Showtime, he thought and put the gun to the side of his head.

“Put the gun down, son!” yelled an old cop, a shotgun trembling in his hand.

“I did this; all this. I’m the madman. You’re welcome!” shouted the assassin.

“I said, put the gun down.”

“Or what? You’ll shoot me? That would be a bit redundant. I’m going to be the one to see myself out.”

Before he could do anything, his left leg was punctured by the cold surface of the first shot.

“God dammit. Did you really have to go for the good leg, you old bastard!” he screamed as he fell to the ground. Now he was on the other end of a bullet.

He heard rushed steps coming closer.

I guess this is it, he thought as he raised the gun to his temple.

After all this time, I’ve learned one thing. There is no glory in killing, he thought as he pulled the trigger.

 

BANG!

Impressum

Texte: Lucia Morosanu
Bildmaterialien: godspard.tumblr.com
Lektorat: Lucia Morosanu
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 01.11.2012

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