Wolf's blog: "Short stories"

Another afternoon at home, I sat with my feet up on the table. Slowly turning a fully loaded ammo clip in my hand, the pistol sat next to me on the plush leather couch. Other than the slight whispering friction of my fingertips against the plastic clip, there were no other sounds in the house. In the days before my final operation in Venezuela, I would be watching television all night, laughing at all of my favorite comedy shows. These days though, I had decided that it made too much noise, and I might not hear someone sneaking in. I always said that you can never be too careful. My former teammates take random occasions to call me and see how things are going. They like to make sure that I made it to the store recently, or really anything as simple as getting up to go to the bathroom. On several occasions, I have soiled my couch, rather than be out of view of the main points of entry to this house. My friends continue to care about me, even after my dismissal from Delta Force following my final psychiatric evaluation. Once known as Blue 2, I did not understand why anyone saw me as crazy. I am simply well prepared. No one was getting in this house without me knowing. No one, and I mean absolutely no one, would kill me. That last guy, Rico, he promised me that the bullet that had struck me in the head would not be the last. He promised me he had friends here in the states and they would come to finish the job. Well all I can say is, "Come and get it, you fucks. I'm ready for you." It's been five years and I have only seen minor attempts so far. A man who claimed to be Chemlawn came over and attempted to poison my water by spraying a chemical that absorbed into the water lines right through the ground. He thought I wouldn't notice. The mailman looked in my window while he was delivering my bills, and I have caught at least three suspicious people who were nonchalantly walking their dogs. They think I don't know, but I'm on to them and I just may make the first move soon. I hear all the lines from everyone. I need to give up and let go. No one is coming to kill me. I need to relax and get on with my life. They even try to entice me with promises of rejoining my old unit, those that are still alive. It's like they want me to be thrown back into a situation where more people can acquire me as a target. They say that's impossible, because we carry no identification on our missions, but Rico swore he knew where I lived, so I'm just being careful. I say again, you can NEVER be too careful. Sliding the clip into the pistol, and slapping it tight with a loud click, I looked at the gun from every angle, turning it left and right in my grip. Sometimes I wonder if I should just aim it at my own head and pull the trigger. Let's see you try to find me then, Rico. I swore at the same time, though, that I would live to thwart Rico's plans to kill me. Killing myself would satisfy him, and therefore it's not worth it. I won't give him the satisfaction. The sound of the doorbell rang through the silent house like a cathedral bell. I whirled on the origin of the chime and almost blew the ringer right off the wall. Taking a moment to collect my nerves, I let my breathing slow down, and wiped the flash sweat from my head. As trained when you get unwanted guests, I slid with my back to the wall. I moved slowly and quietly until my back was to the front wall and I could peer through the angles of the crystal glass that made up the upper portion of the front door. The somewhat-scattered image reflected a man dressed in all blue. Light blue shirt, dark blue shorts, dark blue ballcap. The logo on the hat was impossible to make out from this side of the door. He was holding a clipboard, not a gun. It could still be a clever trick. The man reached out and the doorbell rang again. I slid across the door, keeping my back against it, until I could reach the knob. I unlocked the top three dead bolts, then the bottom two, and turned the knob, opening the door slowly but remaining behind it, pistol in hand. The man stood on the porch for a moment, looking in. Good. He has yet to see me. Suddenly walking in as if he decided the door swung open on its own or was somehow automatic, he took a few steps into the foyer and stood there a moment before saying, "Uh... hello? Anyone home?" I swung the door shut behind him with a loud slam. His body jerked slightly. Good, he was startled, this gives me a little less than a second where he is completely vulnerable and not thinking clearly. I buried my pistol into the back of his neck and held it there as quickly I issued the commands to subdue my aggressor. "Hands up! Place them behind your head! On your knees! Cross your ankles! Stay there!" The man was whimpering slightly, but otherwise complied very quickly and promptly to each order in turn. Now on his knees with his hands behind his head, he didn't try to turn and face me at any given moment. This could be because I perfectly executed the capture commands, or it could be because he works for Rico and he has been through this before. It was likely the second one. I placed my palm against the back of his hands and head and pushed him face first into the floor. There was a soft crunching noise and the man's whimpering grew a louder after it, beginning with a loud grunt at the moment of impact. He started sniffling. Good, I broke his nose. That will make him distracted and his vision will be poor as well, should he suddenly decide to make his move. You have to be prepared for this kind of thing. You can never be too careful. He started to stir slightly so I pushed the pistol to the back of his head again. I need to reestablish authority, so I let the gun be my assistant, "This is a Glock 9mm, it has a 17 shot clip and it is currently fully loaded. On a good day, I only need one shot to kill you. From this range and your current situation, this looks like a very good day. However, just in case this is a bad day, I have 16 more bullets." His sniffling grew a little louder as I heard him muttering, "Oh jesus, oh jesus" over and over again. Good, we're stable and I can relax a little. My capabilities were established. I took the gun from his head and sat back on the stairs. Even though I had lowered the gun, I said to the man still face down in the rug, "Just because you don't feel the gun is no reason to think I won't scatter grey matter all over my foyer if you move." He was still... well... praying I guess. This needed to be more productive, "I'm going to start asking you questions. I need your answers to be brief, blunt, and satisfying to the extent of my entire question. If your answer is a lie, I will know. If you ramble too much, if you seem like you're hiding something, or if I simply do not like your answer, I will begin putting holes in your non-vital organs. We can do this quickly and with a minimal amount of pain, or you can spend your last few hours on Earth as a dickless quadriplegic before I shoot you in the head." I paused long enough to make sure he was in fact listening the whole time and not just still trying to get Jesus to save him. In all honesty, since the likelihood is high that he was sent here to kill me, even the praying could be a clever ruse. I pulled a cigarette from my pack and lit it with the lighter from my pocket, "Question 1: Who are you?" Sniffling a little, there was a small dark puddle forming underneath him. Fantastic. At least I scheduled the carpet shampoo for next week. He answered shakily, "W-Walter, s-s-sir." "Walter. Good. What are you doing here?" "F-Fix the stove." "I didn't call anyone to fix my stove." "Oh lord help me... ch-check my b-b-bag!" I didn't see a bag anywhere. He didn't have one when he came in. I got up and circled around him towards the door, keeping the pistol trained on his skull. Reaching behind me to open the door and keeping my back to it, I took the quick risk of taking my eyes off of him to check and make sure he didn't have back up coming. I hadn't searched him yet. I really should. First, though, I saw his bag on the porch. I quickly reached out and swung it inside the door and kicked it shut again, locking all the locks while keeping my eye on my new friend Walt. "Walter. Here's the thing. Whatever Rico is paying you to try and kill me, it's not enough. I'm a highly trained soldier and he probably didn't mention that." "Wh-who?" "Rico, don't play dumb." "S-sir, I honestly have n-no idea wh-what you mean!!" Well, it was hard to tell, but it didn't seem like he was lying. I checked his bag and right on the top was a folded sheet of paper. The sheet had all of my information, as well as the date I called. I pulled the phone from my pocket and checked the call log. Oh, what do you know, I did call these guys. Oh yeah... the stove. Well, you can never be too careful, and I guess I owe this guy an apology now. Yeah right. Whoever he was, he was good. "Sir," I began, "I'm going to search you very quickly and check you for weapons. After that, I'm going to stand you up, and if you just fix my stove and get out, we won't have a problem." "What about my nose?" "Would you prefer I kill you? I'm still not convinced you're on the level." "Oh n-no sir." "Good we have an understanding." Patting him down, he had two pens, a tin of altoids, and his clipboard under him as I stood him up. I threw the altoids in the trash. They were probably poisoned. I kept the pens just in case. Walking over to the stove, keeping the gun to his back as he walked in front, I dropped his bag at his feet and hopped up on the counter at a safe distance, keeping the gun on him. Trembling, Walter said, "Sir, it's really hard to work with that gun on me. I'm just a repairman and you checked me for weapons." "Hmm... yeah I suppose you're right, but the gun stays here in my hand, and if you try anything funny, I'm going to whirl it on you so fast that you wouldn't have time to shit your pants." I guess he felt he pushed his luck far enough, and he turned to pull the stove away from the wall, and started working behind it. He was still at a fair angle that I could see him from my vantage. I couldn't see his hands, but I could see his pockets and his bag. Speaking of shitting his pants, I couldn't help but notice the room really stank. I'd never smelled someone with a pant load before, but this could be it. I had scared him so bad that he had soiled himself. Good, this exemplifies control through fear. The stench was a bit off though, and I cracked open the window behind me. I never open it too far, just in case a sniper is across the street and he knows the glass is bulletproof. I let him finish his work without incident. He said he was done and I started to walk him back to the front door, gun at his back. He continued to plead that it wasn't necessary, but you can never be too careful. I put my back to the door again and peered outside, keeping my gun to Walter's head. Coast was clear outside, and I opened the door and let Walter walk out. Standing on my porch, he turned, still frightened, "Um.. sir? I need to give you a r-r-r-receipt for the work order..." He swallowed hard as he said the last word. I replied, "Tell Rico he didn't get me this time, and he's lucky his man didn't make a move." I slammed the door shut in his face and kept the gun to the door. Watching him through the scattered view, he turned and ran from the house like a startled cat. Just before running, he had dropped a pink sheet on the porch. Must be my receipt. I opened the door after checking the area again, and reached out for the pink sheet. I chuckled slightly as I watched Walter's work van squeal out of my cul de sac, tires spinning in white smoke. Guess he wasn't a hitman after all, but he will be a very alert repairman tomorrow. The house still stank. Whatever that guy had dropped into his shorts, the smell of it had the ability to stick to furniture. Disgusting. Thanks, Walt. Guess we're even. I scare the shit out of you, and you leave the shit behind. Opening the pink sheet, I noticed there was no price listed. Was he afraid to charge me? Hell! I should do this every time the repairmen come! Now I've got plans for the people that come to clean the rug. Ha! Then something caught my eye. He had signed the bottom of it. It wasn't the signature of a frightened man, or even a professional repairman. It was covered in stars and was underlined with a flourish. He had signed it, "The Firebug. Have a nice day!" With sharp inhalation, I had taken a quick sigh to help me think and understand what was going on, but with that breath, I smelled the house one more time. That wasn't the guy's shit. It was gas. I immediately imagined some sort of delayed time spark installed on my gas line, how he had been down there and disconnected the line from the stove. As I sprinted out the front door, I dove from the porch and slid on my hip underneath my SUV. I was only twenty or so feet from the walkway, but that was enough. The explosion came with a sort of whoomp as The front picture window flew free from the house, still attached to part of the frame. The brick flew in every direction. The windows held together, but traveled at high velocity like giant awkward frisbees. The roof fell in on top of the cavity left behind, and wood and shingles splintered across the ground. I waited under the SUV a little longer as a few more pieces of my once secure home rained from above, and a few more cracks and crashes from within the structure subsided. I crawled out and stared at my house, torn asunder by the very element I had taken for granted to help keep me sustained. Rico didn't get me today, but it looks like I'll have to be more careful in the future.

I always wanted to make my mark. I desperately needed to feel like I had made a difference, even if only to break a record. I was never anything but a quarterback. I was never good at math. I didn't do so well in drama or art. I could throw a football. That was my gift. In Friday's game, we had the chance to win against the team that had been plaguing our honor for over ten years. Our school had never defeated theirs. The whole school came to every game, praying that just once they could go home feeling our pride as we finally beat the Tigers. The entire school had always been let down. In their own way, they believed in us. They saw hope in us. They needed to feel the joy with us. The joy of triumph. When we came into the 4th quarter, two things were happening. We were one pass away from winning, and I was about to break the record for passing yards in any high school quarterback. That record had been held, for over twenty years, by Harry Kurzman. With the whole school watching, we had the chance. We had the chance to be their knights. We could be their heroes, even for just the day. We represented their honor, and this was our chance to let them know that they would not be disappointed. Me, my team, all of us, today we would win it for them all. I went against the coach's call. He had attempted to tell me to take the tie and not go for the long shot. I changed the play and got my team ready for a long pass. They felt it as much as I did. For just that one day, they wanted to be the heroes. We all wanted it. My coach was just trying to protect me. In order to go for the win, I had to break the passing record. He didn't want me to break the record. I hesitated slightly on the snap, but I moved quickly. This was for my team, this was for my school, this was for my entire damn town. I gave my receiver enough chance to run the length of the field and I let fly with the ball. My man was uncovered, all alone, and so the whole crowd, and both teams, stood still. The game came down to whether or not he would catch it. The surge within me when he did was felt by us all. The roar of the crowd was immense. It was all worth it. I say that because, if you're reading this, whoever you are, then I am dead. Harry Kurzman was apparently a very serious man about his high school record as a quarterback. I feel terrible for him that he is forced to hang on to something that mattered for only one day. Harry, I pity you, if anyone ever reads this letter. I promised myself that I would keep this letter in my pocket until I no longer felt that Harry Kurzman was going to kill me. I promised myself that it would stay there until I felt that his death threats, the ones he sent prior to the game, were hollow. In the back of my mind, I couldn't help but be scared. Sorry, Harry, but this was my chance to shine, and I had to take it, and I am sorry that you had to kill me for it. I'm praying that this letter will be read by someone besides Harry himself. I'm praying that maybe it will help in his arrest. If anything, you can ask my coach. He read every threat as well. I want to thank my coach for trying to defend me and save my life. However, as I said before, this was my call and I made the decision. That day... I was a hero... for just that day. Goodbye, and thank you. Maybe I should have been a writer instead.

Setting my wine glass down again without taking a sip, I wrapped my arms around Kelly. We were finally together. I couldn't stop holding her long enough to drink the glass of wine she had brought to me. I loved her so much. Together we sat on the couch in front of a fire. Van Morrison played in the background, and the mood couldn't be more perfect as she sat in my lap on the couch. She must have seen the look in my eye as she asked, "What's on your mind, honey?" She smiled with such a demand for adoration. How could anyone not love her? "I'm just happy to be here. I'm happy we can finally be together." She smiled and snuggled up to me a little closer and sipped her wine. We had been through so much together, gone through so much hell just so we could have this moment, the first of many. Her debts, her court dates, and finally her husband. Thinking about her husband is the hardest part. For the first time I dared to ask, "Do you think it was wrong that we killed him?" She giggled, "Honey no, of course not. He was a terrible man. You knew that. How could we ever be together as long as he was alive?" "Yeah, I suppose you're right." She smiled again. Her smile could make everything seem just fine. She giggled again, "don't you wnt to be with me?" The thought of her asking was ludicrous, "Of course I do!" "Well, that's why we had to kill him, right?" I paused. I guess it made sense, "Yes dear, of course." "Well quit worrying about it!" and she giggled again. Her laugh was so captivating. She was so beautiful. Even when she accidentally flipped her long blonde hair in my face, I couldn't help but stop to get her scent from it for just that brief moment before she laughed and apologized. My conscience weighed so heavily, though, "It just seems wrong. I mean I never killed anyone before." "Trust me honey, you saved my life, and now we have a life together." "Yes but... I mean what if we get caught? The police are bound to ask you questions." "And I was here with you, right?" "Yes of course." "And even though they'll know I was having an affair, they can't catch us for murder if our alibi is tight." "I suppose you're right." She looked at me directly, "Don't you love me?" "Of course, sweetheart!" "Killing him was right!" "It was right!" "My husband would have killed us both for our forbidden love!" "Yes dear..." "Besides, if the cops get too close... you could always kill yourself." There was a long pause. I was in utter shock. Kill myself? Why would I do that? Was she serious? Her eyes looked so sincere. "Honey..." She laughed wildly out loud. It wasn't as funny to me... "Sweetheart! Honey! I'm kidding!" she laughed again. "Oh... heh... yes... very funny" "Sweetie I know you can't kill yourself. If anything I'd poison you and just tell them you did it yourself!" She laughed again. The laughter seemed maniacal in my head. Jesus, what have I done? She kept on laughing, but choked it off long enough, "Baby I'm kidding again! Gosh you should see your face!" The thought had never crossed my mind. She had her husband killed in under 2 weeks of meeting me. Yes I loved her. I thought she was amazing and beautiful and a joy to be around. It was blissful, but what's stopping her from having me killed next? She smiled at me, "Sweetie... you haven't had any of your wine." She smiled even wider as she brought the glass to my lips and started to tilt it slowly. I grabbed the glass and eased it back to a level position. "Drink up honey, let's celebrate our life together!" she smiled. Suddenly I recall that I couldn't see her as she poured this glass.

1/14/06 - 5 days to extinction In case someone ever finds this. I want you to know that I am not really dead. Jason Carter, the notorious serial killer and slaughterer of kidnapped children, may have died on that table, but it was not me. 1/15/06 - 4 days to extinction I cannot stop writing in this thing. To whomever may read this one day. I hope you take it to the public eye. If I have to give back the money, I will. I found something better. 1/16/06 - 3 days to extinction Hollywood paid me to be here. I'm breaking my contract just by writing this. In 3 days you will see me on a table in front of millions. I will be the first ever to receive a lethal injection on live nationally syndicated network television. The entire US wants to see me die for the heinous crimes I have committed. Hollywood is picking up the check for all of your entertainment. 1/17/06 - 2 days to extinction If I'm going to confess, I might as well do it entirely. The biggest problem with everything that Hollywood paid for concerning my death is that it is exactly what it is. It's all Hollywood. It's all lights and shows. I am not Jason Carter. I am just an actor. I would tell you my real name, but I have changed it, and I don't want anyone to find me after the world sees me die. I never committed any crime, and I am not really going to die. The producers fabricated it all. Well, ok, not the crimes, but let's just say there's an innumerable amount of people out there who are happy to be off the hook for things that the producers of this fiasco have paid to have pinned on the character of Jason Carter. After the world sees me "die" or rather receive a knockout drug that slows my heart below that of the sensitivity of the heart monitor I will be hooked up to, I will be hauled into a back room, and I will wake up next to a big bag of cash, 24 million to be exact. A small amount of change compared to what the producers will make after they make a compilation of all this nonsense and sell the rights. After that, it's my job to disappear, and never tell anyone that it was all fake. You can't blame me for agreeing to deceive the world for that kind of money. 1/18/07 - 23 hours to extinction The extinction of Jason Carter. While doing my interviews on death row, I received many letters. One of them really connected with me. She and I fell in love over the course of our writing to each other, and had many late night phone conversations within my legal time limits. I could never confess to her that this was all a scam. They monitor my mail and my phone calls. However, the person she fell in love with is me all the same, even if I'm not a criminal and I am not Jason Carter. I hope to find her after I leave, and I hope that she understands. 1/19/07 - 2 hours to extinction This is my final note. Wherever my Mary is, I hope to track her down. I'll have the money to do it. I just hope she accepts me. I hope you all prosper in what you do, and I hope I am never found but by one person. IF I never find you, Mary, I hope somewhere out there, you know that I love you. -- With that, I finally put the book down and stashed it in a hollow space under my cot. I didn't get a last meal. That seemed odd. Maybe the guards also happen to know that it's not exactly my last meal? I fully intend to go through with my contract, unless of course someone finds that book one day. Should that be the case, I'll stay hidden nonetheless, because I won't need to come forward. They'll have people authenticate it left and right. All of my letters are on the internet, scanned in jpegs, they'll have no trouble knowing it was me that wrote it. My cell door slammed open. The warden walked up to me, a pastor in tow. "It's time," he said, very straight forward and very professionally. I stood nervously. That felt so silly. I really felt nervous, as if I was really going to die. I knew that wasn't true... sort of. I mean, at one point, I really thought that they might kill me for real to keep from having to pay me. I got over it though, because if they killed me for real, the medical examination would prove I wasn't who they said I was, and there'd be hell across the board. So, I knew I wasn't going to die, but I guess a part of me was. The past twelve years of my life had known nothing but Jason Carter. For two years I stayed in a lavish apartment in Long Beach, California, with an unlimited spending account. I had to wear disguises as I went around, because they were in the process of framing Jason Carter for everything short of killing Abraham Lincoln. The time was cut short when someone recognized me under the disguise and reported it to police. That moved the schedule slightly ahead, and we went right to the scene where I show no remorse whatsoever in court and get sentenced to death by a jury of my peers. It was my greatest performance ever. I stayed in character at ALL times. That character was me in its own way, and so I guess, in one way I will die. Regardless, I have a new life waiting. I just hope my true love awaits me on the other side, and I hope she waits for me, and is not waiting for Jason Carter. Tuning in to the pastor's last rites, I cut him off and said, "Father, don't pray for my soul, pray for my love and future happiness." The pastor looked flustered as we walked together down the hall to the table. Thumbing through his most favored book, he eventually said, without looking up, "I don't think I know that prayer. What chapter is it?" That was the last time Jason Carter ever laughed out loud.

Sharpening my knife, I look at the hostages around me. They sit almost as if they were indifferent to the dead guards among them. It wasn't my plan to do anything but rob the bank. I was trained heavily on knives and had the teller plenty scared with my speed and precision as I flashed the knife to her throat. Things had been going well. One security guard always has to be a cowboy. This always spurs the other guards to join in. Bullets can't touch me. I am way too fast. In the hopeless attempt they made as I stabbed the first guard in the heart, two customers were shot by their bullets as they missed their mark. That's their fault. Slitting two throats and disemboweling the final guard, I find myself on the business end of a very sticky situation. There are cops outside and I have killed some of the "hostages". It's possible that they will see the guards as a risk they took by taking the job. If that's the case, they won't be breaking in here to take me out. The phone keeps ringing. I guess they want me to answer it. What do they want me to say? List my demands? Simple, "I want you to walk out of here with the money I intended to take, so that the daughter I never met can have a chance for college." It was too late for me. I was a hardened criminal with no hope of retribution. Putting me in prison would only delay me from my next crime against the common public. The phone stopped ringing, and I heard the voice of someone through a bullhorn, "Answer the phone or we're coming in!" The phone started ringing again. I didn't know what they wanted me to say that they couldn't figure for themselves. I was trapped in a bank with a bunch of people I never met, and I just wanted to make sure my daughter could go to college. These people were marks, but they never did anything to me. The guards were casualties of their own demise. I didn't have to kill them. They could have simply accepted that the money was insured and let me go. The phone kept ringing. I had to move fast. I ordered the hostages to stand up. They all moved quickly, despite me holding nothing but wrist-lock knives. The manager had opened the safe. "We know you're in there! Come on out, and we'll be amicable about this!" I packed the money into my gym bag. "Let the people go!" Hey, that's a good idea. I packed my knives into their holsters in my back. I said to the people, "It's time to go." They got up with a look of hope in their eyes. As they began to scramble for the exit, I moved with them. In the midst of the crowd, I reached the front doors. Cops quickly grabbed each of the hostages and pulled them aside with a shock blanket. I stood there as more went past me. I saw a dead guard beneath me. His gun was in his hand. He fired a single shot, which means even the oldest gun would have 5 more. However, he had an automatic, which means he had at least 7 shots to go. I picked up his gun and palmed it. IF these cops were going to kill me, I was going to take at least one of them with me. I'm not going back to jail. I'm no good to my daughter there. The crowd continued to flow. With a bag full of money, and a gun in my hand, I realized I never knew my daughter's name as I charged out the door with everyone else. I kept the gun to my back. No sense in using it if I didn't have to, but if it came down to it, I would be shot and killed before I go back to jail. Clicking the hammer back on the gun, I thought to myself, come get some, pigs. An image of how my daughter must look appeared in my mind just before I kicked open the door. Here goes something...

The sound of a single bullet sliding into the chamber. The metal against metal with a final click and chime at the end is like a victory all by itself. I could climb down from this hill and feel victorious without ever firing the shot. Still, I have duty, a mission, and I intend to see it through. Looking through the scope of my rifle, I see a hundred men that have no idea I am there. They walk back and forth in their appointed rounds, as if no one lie in wait to wreck their plans. I survey the compound and spot the power generator, the fuel station, and the headquarters. There in the headquarters was the man I had to kill. It was funny how that always worked. These people were filed in like shark teeth. Knock one out, and another filled its place without hesitation. They'd have a new leader before the prior's death could be made into a proper press release. So why am I here? I thought about my wife. Cristina. I thought about our kids and how they'd live without people like me. I thought about the world if left to the violent and undisciplined. I thought about anarchy. A single bullet could change that for them. Right here and right now I could shake the pressure. I could make a small difference by myself. I wish I wasn't alone, but my spotter had been killed. Luckily, they never found me, but someone is looking, I am sure. The base was in no alert. Whoever killed my spotter, he wanted the kill for himself. The crackle of sticks behind me was a foolish move, the act of an amateur. I spun my rifle around and caught my killer in my sights. The rifle was silenced, I had no fear of exposure if I shot him. The suppressor on my gun was almost ridiculous. The faint click was all you could hear if I pulled the trigger. I didn't fire right away. I took careful aim at his heart. The hesitation wasn't so much for the proper aim, but to make sure he knew he had been beat. Right before I pulled the trigger, I saw the defeat in his eyes, right before his chest exploded with a close range shot. Chatter. A language I don't understand coming from the bushes around. I didn't have time to reload. I dropped the rifle and swung my machine pistol from the strap. I brought it up just in time to meet the further enemies coming from the bushes. The H&K was not silenced. It was loud, and deadly. It was only supposed to be used during emergencies. None of this came up in my mind as I swung it for the head of the nearest attacker. Bringing him to the ground with the impact, I watched three more coming. Luckily, all from the same direction, and I flipped the safety on my gun and opened the clip. My machine pistol spit steel at a rapid rate. It could unleash 30 shots before you could count to ten on your best day. At that volume, it didn't matter where they were hit. I pulled my knife and plunged it into the skull of the squirming man beneath me. All movement immediately stopped. four men dead around me, I could hear distant shouts from down below. I picked up my rifle and looked through the scope. The base below was alive. Men were running everywhere. They climbed into jeeps, manned towers, armed themselves with whatever they could find. My infiltration was blown. What would Cristina think if she got a letter from the joint chiefs describing my death? Would she believe that it was honorable? Would she accept that my death had been in vain, or would she know that I did my best to make a difference? Just then, their leader came out of the tent. I could see him through my scope. I didn't hesitate and I pulled the trigger. Click. The sound of the empty rifle was like a signal of despair. I hadn't had time to reload it! The machine pistol was empty as well, and already I could hear the vehicles closing in on where I was. I thought of the men identifying my dead body by my tattoos. I thought of them bringing down Cristina and our boys by somehow making the connection. I thought of a world where men like this one ruled, and I fumbled for another bullet from the ammo belt across my chest. Sliding another round in made the familiar metal to metal sound, with a slip and a click as I lowered the bolt and prepared the bullet to fire. Back in my scope, I knew I had a mission to complete. Fuck the people coming to get me. I had to relocate, I knew that, but this may be my only chance. My wife would never approve. She would tell me it wasn't worth all of the violence. She would say she's proud of me, but then I saw her being beheaded by these monsters. "CRISTINA!" I yelled as I swung the rifle off of the leader and onto their fuel station, and fired my shot. The bullet hit home, striking a spark in the ground by the fumes of the pump. The resulting explosion came forth with a wave of force that knocked me clean. I took a minute and shook it off, and then I began to run. They were sure to find me. I had just killed their leader, along with half of his security. They had vehicles and I was alone and on foot. I continued to run. I left my rifle behind. I had nothing but an empty machine pistol. I didn't care. I had made my difference that day. Whether or not I lived, my wife slept secure one more night. With that, I can die. Or I can escape, and let her live one more time. If I ever get out of this, I'll hold a funeral anyway. I ran on with that promise.

I've been struck by lightning three times. One of these times was while in a crowd at a soccer game. I never fear, for I am the luckiest man alive. I dropped a glass bottle in the street that contained my heart pills. Moments later, my heart started to seize while a car blew two tires on the glass shards and crashed into a light pole. They survived, because I'm the luckiest man alive. I saved my money for twenty years to make a bank deposit. That day at the bank, it was robbed. The robber took my money from my hand before it could be deposited. The FDIC doesn't insure that. I once had a winning lottery ticket, but on my way to claim my prize, it began to rain. I grabbed my coat to pull it tighter from the wind and the rain, and lost my grip on the ticket. The wind blew it into a storm drain. I couldn't remember the numbers and had no receipt. I chased a cat out of my yard. I later found out that it was the cat of Liz Taylor, and she was offering a reward of one hundred thousand dollars for its return. I still don't care. Forty people came out of an elevator with no trouble. When I got into it by myself, the cables snapped and the emergency brake engaged. It took them four hours to even realize someone was in it. Before then, it was just maintenance guys trying to fix it. Of all the places in New York City, and long after it was cleaned up, I stepped in the one place that had someone's banana peel on the curb. I slipped and fell backward, the back of my head racing for the concrete. But she caught me. As she stood me back up, I first saw her smile. It was at my expense, but with no pressure of embarrassment. I smiled back and thanked her, and together we walked that day, laughing and talking. We saw each other for 2 days before we even learned each other's names. We had many fun dates and eventually fell in love. She's the anchor to my wild ship. No misfortune can befall me with her by my side. Her smile is all I need. We are to be married next June. I am the only man she ever loved. She is the only woman that ever loved me. That's why I am the luckiest man alive. Of course, this isn't about me, lol

The white glare was similar to a camera flash at point blank range. When my vision finally cleared, I was sitting at a gray table, in a gray room, with two people in gray suits staring at me. One was white, one black, both very trim. The white one spoke, "Agent Riggs, would you say this suspect is being uncooperative?" Whoa. Agents? Suspect? I'm in an interrogation room. Holy hell. The black one nodded, obviously named Riggs, and said, "Yep, Miller, I'd say he's very uncooperative. I haven't seen someone this uncooperative, but then again, there's always the phone book." The white one, Miller, smiled at me, and reached under the table, retrieving a massive phone book that had been wrapped together with duct tape. Miller said to me, "This here is the most abundant source of names and numbers in the local area. Maybe if I slam it into your face a couple of times, one of those names will jump into your head where you can then relay it to us, huh?" Miller took a batting stance. His intent was clear. He really was going to stand there and swing that book at me. Riggs stood with his arms folded and kept on smiling. The time to speak was now. "Whoa wait, ok guys, agents, seriously. I need to know what I'm doing here. I want to help." Miller stopped in his tracks. He looked at me with curious regard, and his makeshift club lowered, as did Riggs' arms. Riggs stepped forward to the table and leaned down to place both hands on it, "You mean to tell me you don't know what you're doing here?" "Guys I don't even know who I am!" "Well that's easy enough," said Miller. He walked to a back table in the small room and picked up a manila folder. He began to read from it, "Trent Culpepper, born 1976. After high school, you did a quick stint in the marines before you got lured to cross branches and join the Delta Force. Your record becomes blurry after that, but luckily you left a calling card. You dropped a single hair onto the face of each person you killed. Luckily for you, they are all black-ops kills, and every time we try to peg you for the death of an american citizen, it conveniently goes away, but my memories do not." I swallowed hard. I began to remember. The memories came in sudden flashes. Miller continued, "The question here, Mr. Culpepper, is why you are sitting in front of us." "That's my question, too! What am I doing here??" I spoke with a frantic desperation, "I don't completely remember the things I did, but if it's like you said, then this should all go away right?" Riggs spoke up, "That's true! We would almost prefer to let it go away. The case closes neatly and disappears without any effort whatsoever. My partner and I can go home to our wives without working any late shifts, or the thoughts of a cold open case burning in her minds. However, there's one death that really drives the nail. There's one killing that no one is backing you up on. There's one person that was killed, and we saw dead and buried with full honors, in a ceremony that gripped this entire town, interred into his grave in front of the eyes of hundreds, that no one seems to be talking about and we would love to have answers for." I paused, but finally said, "Who would that be?" "You... Mr. Culpepper." "I'm sorry?" "We want to know why the medical examiner looked over your body, why we watched you get buried, only to find you here in our station 48 hours later, with a giant hole where your cemetery plot used to be?" For the first time, I looked down at my hands and arms. I was covered in dirt. Looking further, I was in half of a cheap black suit. The pants were nowhere in the room. Opening the suit jacket, I found 3 holes in my chest, one over my heart, that had been neatly stitched shut. My concern turned to panic, "Whoa wait a minute. I have no idea what's going on here!!" Miller slammed his hand on the table, "Neither do we, my man! All we know is, there's a fucking kid out there with four hundred and fifty thousand dollars, payable on your death, and now your death is a lie! Was it a fantastic ploy for life insurance? Did you think no one would see you escape? TELL ME!" I could not stop looking at my chest. Unlike when they read my file, no images came back as to what put these holes in me. Out of some instinct, I knew they were bullet holes. Another question arose. If I had been buried in a coffin, how did I get through the seal of the box itself? Riggs continued to remain trained on me with his hands on the table. He said, "Look, Trent, we're not here to bust you if you did nothing wrong, we just need to know that something besides a crime is happening here, and you're free to leave." They wanted answers I didn't have. I swallowed again and said, "Look, guys, I really want to help any way I can, but I don't remember anything, and the way I see it, I'm really fucked. I woke up here with no recollection, I have three holes in me, I'm covered in dirt, and if that means I crawled out of a grave, then alright. However, I don't have any more information for you. I want to know what's going on as much as you do, but you're the ones with the file, and that makes you more in tune than I am." Both men just looked at me. I guess they could tell I was sincere, but I just wasn't satisfying them. I spoke again, "Look, seriously guys, obviously someone wants to kill me, and by all physical realms of explanations, they succeeded, but I'm here now and even more confused than you are. I don't need interrogation. I need help understanding." Their facial expressions changed. They went from anger to a stern intrigue. Riggs leaned forward, as did Miller, and Riggs said, "You honestly don't know, do you?" "No! Damnit I've been trying to say that!" Miller stepped away from the table and went for the back table again. He came back with another folder and slapped it in front of me, "Have a look for yourself." I eyed him cautiously, but then I looked down at the folder and opened it. It was a complete dossier on a man named only in the file as "Stewart." I realized I said that out loud. Riggs perked, "You know who he is?" I replied, "No! I have no idea who he is!" Miller leaned forward, "Oh you're going to tell us." I was eyeing his gun for some reason. Miller kept speaking, "You're going to tell us and you're going to spill all of the information you have on his connections. You're going to tell us how you managed to talk him into this scheme. You're going to tell us how you did such a bang up job on the bullet wounds. You're going to TELL US HOW YOU STAYED DEAD FOR TWO DAYS, BUT MOSTLY YOU'RE GOING TO--" He cut himself off as I leaped from the chair and grabbed his gun. "Don't move!" I yelled to Agent Riggs, holding Miller by the neck in one arm, and pointing the gun to his head in the other. Riggs immediately put his hands up, but then corrected to move slowly for his gun, draw it from the holster, and drop it on the floor. It was then that Miller became limp in my arms. I had no idea that I had been strangling him. I thought I was just holding his neck, not choking him. I continued to hold him there. He was only unconscious for now, but it felt necessary to make sure he was dead. Eventually, the strains in his neck tightened under my arm, and I dropped him to the floor. It was that very moment that Riggs made an eye for his own gun on the floor. I pointed the gun at him with both hands. "Don't move," I repeated. Riggs looked back at me and said, "Culpepper... Trent... look, you still have options. You fire that gun and kill me and there will be a hundred local cops in here. They've had nothing to do in five years and they're a bit mad about us taking jurisdiction. They'll kill you on the spot and argue over who fired the fatal shot." "SHUT UP!!" I yelled. "Listen to me Trent! We can work this out... just give me the gun, and I'll do whatever I can with the local courts. I'll say you cooperated--" "I WILL SHOOT YOUR ASS!" I yelled. I was never very tough. I can't speak with strength or conviction. No cops had come in yet, despite all the noise. "Trent, listen to me. Just put the gun down... we can talk about your options. You have to make a choice right now. One choice is you put that gun down and I can still help you. The other option is that you shoot me and die." I had not even noticed the sweat on my hands. It had made the gun slippery and loose in my fingers, the sights twitching everywhere as my nerves shook. I didn't notice... until it had started to cease. My mind became calm again. I'm not sure, but I think I even smiled. I straightened my gaze and said, "So as long as I don't shoot you with this gun... I have options?" "Yes Trent... that's what I am saying." "Then I guess I'll just have to kill you without it." With that, I threw the gun at him and dove across the table. The gun missed and hit the wall, as Riggs was already diving for his own gun. I hit the table with speed and force and slid to the point that I could grab Riggs by the back of his neck. As I pulled him up, I realized that he had retrieved his gun. I caught his hand at the wrist as it swung to point at me. Pulling him to the table where I lay, it became a forceful struggle over the gun itself. I moved my hand from his wrist to the gun and together we matched strength, trying to point the gun at each other. His face turned to anger. I swung my body and threw a kick at his back. The impact of my leg jarred him forward with enough sudden surprise that he lost his grip on the gun. He was still right though, I couldn't shoot him. I swung the gun at his head and felt the strangely satisfying impact of metal to bone. Riggs fell to the ground, holding one hand to the side of his skull. He was already getting up. Reflexively, I fired a round into the top of his head. Sparing the details, let's just say he fell dead on the spot. His body lay crumpled to the floor. The acoustics in this room were overwhelming. That gunshot had sounded as if ten guns had been fired in the same small closet. I aimed the gun at the door and prepared myself for a hell of a firefight. No one came. I waited, longer and longer, for someone to charge through the door. I waited for handfuls of the local finest to kick the door in... or even peek in to see what the noise was all about. No one did. Slowly, gun aimed at the door, I walked towards it and opened it slowly. Peeking through a small crack in the opening, I saw... nothing. I opened the door fully, and all I saw was a long and concrete corridor. It seemed to go on forever. Regardless of its length, there was no one in it from how far I could see. The killing of the two men felt invigorating. I wasn't sure how to explain it to myself, but I felt like there was more to be done. I knew one for sure. I walked back to the table and grabbed the file on Stewart. I looked it over again and grabbed his photo and his last known home address. I crumpled them into my pocket. I began to walk for the door. Whoever it was, God or the Devil, that had seen through to give me a second chance, and who I was doing work for, was completely irrelevant. The men I had killed spoke of a life insurance policy on me to a girl of some sort. That was irrelevant, too. I had a job to do, and answers may or may not be involved. I didn't necessarily need to understand. I only had to act. Even the fire that burned in my hands went unnoticed for the moment. As I exited the room, I thought of the wadded sheets in my pocket. I had a face, and I had a name. It was time to find Stewart.

Nicholas Krantz stood at the base of the hill, gazing upon the sunset. His silver-plated tachi slid slowly into its scabbard at his waist beneath the outer folds of his flowing black robes. His entire body seemed to move with the strong wind blowing, his robes and long hair flapping with the gusts of air and sounding like a high-flying victory flag. He paid no attention to the man who stood behind him, rigid and locked in an expression of fear, a bit of blood trickling from his open mouth. The stiletto in his back had been barely visible as Nick had raced past him, tachi extended. Krantz, now known by many other names, simply continued to watch the sun go down, listening to the birds and the wind.Just as the man behind him made a gurgling gasp, and he was about to turn and look at him, the cell phone in the inside pocket of his robes rang. Nick pulled his phone and checked the number. It was him. His master. The only man who knew the number. Yet, he always checked the number. He let go of his sheathed tachi with his other hand and flipped open the phone and spoke his one word greeting. "Retainer," he always began with. His master spoke on the other end, "I hope you are available, I have more work for you." Just as the words landed upon Nick's patiently listening ears, the man behind him issued one more choked-off attempt to scream, before the wound began to take full form in a bold, bloody, diagonal line through his torso. Everything from his right hip to the top of his left shoulder slid slowly from its place in a solid piece, as his legs collapsed underneath, and the man fell to the ground in two large pieces. "My schedule just cleared up," replied Nick. "Come to my office." "How soon, master?" "As soon as possible." Nick turned to face the sunset again, using it to gauge the time, "Tomorrow morning will be perfect. I am late for a game of chess." With that, Nick's master hung up the phone. Nick turned and looked at the dead man finally, the two large pieces of him heaped atop one another. Krantz is not sure whether or not it was the overdose of paralyzing poison on the tip of the stiletto that had killed the man, or the fact that he had passed straight through his lung with his tachi as he sliced the man in half, but he didn't care, and neither would the medical examiner when they found him. He walked on down the hill and into the woods, off to make his appointment. The old man sat at the stone table in the park. The chessboard was naturally etched in the stone of the table. The light squares were indicated by being ever so slightly higher off the table than the dark ones. All the pieces, except for one, were all arranged in their starting positions. The old man, known as Rich, always made the first move. He made his move long before he spotted Nick arriving. He sat patiently and waited as Nick reached the table and sat at the other side, and immediately made the next move. Nick didn't look up as he watched Rich make another move, "Sorry I'm late. Work went on a little long, and the sunset was beautiful." Rich huffed, "You still call it work." "It is. Hard work at that." "It's hard to be the assassination puppet of a troubled old man?" "He's my master." "You chose him. You owe him nothing." Nick moved another piece, "He afford me the opportunities to do what I love to do." Another move from Rich, "Kill people?" "Live by the sword." "Money still runs everything." "And because of my master, I worry none about money." Rich chuckled, "He could at least get you better clothes." "These clothes are my choice." "I don't think anyone chose that haircut, though. It's definitely on a mind of its own." Nick smiled, despite neither one of them looking at eachother yet, "I got the idea from an anime character." "Is that where your media nickname came from? The Silver Samurai?" "No sir, that's an american comic book I think." "You dressed yourself up as a comic book character?" "Actually I don't think I look anything like him at all. I think he has armor." "Why don't you wear armor?.... check." Nick moved his king to safety, "Don't need it I guess." "I would feel better if you wore it. At least a vest." "People have to see you coming in order to shoot you." "You mean to tell me that no one ever sees this giant floppy black mass hopping in sandals towards them waving a big sword?" "No need to be demeaning." Rich frowned. Despite his need to seem sincere, he still did not look up at Nick. They remained trained on the chessboard and the game at hand. Rich sighed, "I don't mean to be demeaning. I just... wish you would apply yourself to something besides killing people for a shady law firm." "I am doing what I like to do. I follow my master and it is weakness to question his wishes." "Even if you're not dead in ten years, you're dead already. Your life is meaningless." "There is no shame in this." Rich frowned. He wanted to say something more, but instead made another move, "Check." Nick stood, "I have to be going." The game had never been finished before. Each time they played, the game ended without conclusion. The game was a never ending one. For both of them, to end the game would cease all reason to stay in contact. Rich nodded at his sudden dismissal of himself. Nick turned and walked away. Rich stood after Nick's eyes were out of view. He turned to face Nick's back, "Nick... wait." Nick stopped in his tracks, but did not turn around. Rich continued, "Every time you come to see me, I wonder if I will see you tomorrow. I keep waiting to read your name in the obituaries." Nick remained silent, but his head turned slightly, as if listening harder. Rich noticed this and continued, "I pray every day you'll show up and continue our game. Just please, look me in the eye today, if never before and never again, and... please... just this once... say goodbye?" Nick stood in place. The moments seemed to take hours for Rich. Finally, without warning, Nick slowly turned. The sway of his robes showed a glimmer of his sheathed tachi beneath them as he slowly spun to face Rich. For the longest of moments, they simply stared at each other. Studying each other's faces, the pain in Rich's, and the determination in Nick's, they faced each other for the first time in twenty-four years. Finally, Nick's mouth slowly opened. "Goodbye... father." Rich Krantz watched his son walk off. As he disappeared from view, Rich turned back to the chessboard, and tipped over his king. With that, Nick walked on, never to return to the chess table again, though no obituary was ever written.

dedicated to a friend Hope stirred her coffee in the cafeteria of the hospital. She looked about and watched the various patrons of the cafe itself. She was on a break from being on the other side of the counter, and it had been a rough day so far. Most of the customers were patients of the hospital. They were, of course, mobile patients, but you could see the full array of ailments. People in wheelchairs, using voice boxes, and just plain getting old, were all available. Hope could take her break every day and see the truly miserable side of the pain... the pain that could only be seen in a hospital. Just like her namesake, she could see hope all the same. They were here to be renewed. They were in this hospital to one day get better and have a second chance at making a life out of all of this. As she took a sip of her coffee, she set it down to see a sharpened man taking a seat at her table. He looked so familiar. "Why do you look so sad?" he said with apparent concern. "I see these people every day. I wonder if they will ever walk out of here," Hope replied. "You worry too much. Have you ever wondered that faith itself would see them through?" "Faith isn't always a healer," Hope said with a glare. She was not prepared for another religious freak. The man seemed to have caught the glare, but he smiled anyways, "What's your name?" Hope paused. She paused long enough for the man to notice. Finally she replied, "My name is Catilana." "That's an interesting name. Does it suit you?" This took her back a second, "Well I am a dancer." "So why do you work here in this cafe then?" "I like to have even a small part in helping people." The man's smile grew broadly and quickly, "And does being a dancer not help people?" Hope had never actually been a dancer. She had no reply to this, but she went with something that seemed fitting, "No, that's just older guys drooling on me. I do it for the money." The man dropped a 50-dollar bill on the table. He said, "sometimes all they need is a glimmer of... hope... Cat." With that, he got up with a smile and walked away. He had turned before he could see Hope's expression of shock. She had always wanted a pet name to go with the name she always wanted. She wondered how he could know. She also wondered if he knew she was not actually a dancer. Looking about, she noticed that the other patrons of the cafe were looking at her and smiling. One particular elder gentleman in a wheelchair even nodded to her. She was not sure what that meant. Could she really be the dancer she wanted to be? Looking around again for the man, she found him again, but standing in the back corner of the cafeteria. He was smiling at her. He made a gesture with his hand as if to offer her to the top of the table she was sitting at. Hope thought the whole idea was crazy. There was no way she would dance on the table in a hospital loaded with elders and the sick. It just wasn't the place. He smiled again, and motioned again with his hand. Hope wondered yet again... could he be right? Could this simple act be something that could heal? The man spoke to her, but it could not be heard over the din of the lunchroom. However, she could read his lips. She could clearly make out that he had said, Give them hope. It was then that Catilana had been spawned in full force. Cat did not recall the thoughts before she slowly stood up and stepped to the top of the table. The cafe had gone quiet as they were staring at her. The man smiled again and put a quarter in the jukebox in the corner. The music began to fill her body and force it to move. She swayed with intent and happiness. The freedom by which she moved represented something in everyone in the cafe. The patients stared in wonder, but slowly approached. As she continued to dance on the table, she felt the invigorating feeling of those watching her. She was not sure if it was bad or good, but Catilana was not prepared to stop just now. Cat swayed with the music, intense and seductive in nature, as people drew so close that they began to take the seats around the table. They still continued to stare. Catching her eye was a man in a wheelchair in the back. He clearly wanted to smile. Instead, he stared with his jaw dropped open. As he continued to stare, his hands reached for the armrests of his wheelchair. Cat simply continued to dance, but she smiled at him and... without thinking, she winked. The handicapped man smiled with his mouth still open. Catilana could feel the warmth from him, the happiness and the intensity of his intrigue. She smiled at him again, and continued to dance. She never knew why she started dancing. She always felt pretty, and had always been told so, but this was way beyond her boundaries. She never thought she'd be dancing on a table in a hospital to a song she never heard before. She never thought she'd feel so embarrassed, but she also never thought she'd feel this free. It was like nothing mattered. It was just Catilana, her audience, and the song. Even as she watched the man in the wheelchair stand on his own, and begin to walk shakily to her table, she just wanted to dance. The room had shifted their attention to the man walking towards Catilana. He shifted his weight with every step, in dangerous fear of falling over, but those who had been patients for awhile knew him. Corey Smith. He had been declared paralyzed for life over six months ago. He continued to walk forward, and Cat's surprise was beyond apparent, yet she never stopped dancing. She averted her gaze only long enough to look at the original stranger again. He was no longer a stranger. She recognized him, finally. His name was Michael Strathburg. He had died in his sleep three years ago. He had been the only person she had ever told about her dreams of being a dancer. She remembered now what he had said, "I have faith in you." The smile had been the same as the smile he gave now. Catilana watched as he turned for the door. Just as Corey moved forward and hugged her, tears in his eyes, Michael smiled back at her one last time, and winked, his wings barely visible underneath his jacket.