Title:Asassin
Author: Syn
Rating: Oh geez..PG-13? I'm horrid at ratings.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never was, never will be unless I get Joss drunk and gamble him for it...and even then its up to Lady Luck.
A/N: This is a short, but really evil fic. I was in a bad, impossibly devilish mood when I wrote this. Forgive me.


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Code Name: Harvey
Location: Chicago, Illinois
Target: Kill Robert Williamson

I'm not even a shadow. And it's damn hard to catch a shadow. It's impossible to catch me. I've killed more men than any serial killer on the planet. I am the assassin. I am the second gunman on the grassy knoll.

Except..I wasn't alive back then. Whatever. Details, details.

Right now I have a mission. Robert Williamson, eh? I wonder what he did to deserve the old whack-a-mole. Oh well, what do I care? I just aim and shoot. No problem. Let the government clean up my mess. They're the one who sent me here anyway.

I got my little dossier open and there's a picture of Robert and family. Too cute. I'm going to retch. At least he's not like the last guy I had to whack. Damn Afghanistan's and their terrorists. THAT is tight security, but eventually I got the bastard and now he's just another notch on the butt of my rifle. God, its good to be me!

Anyway, I'm in Chicago and this is a crappy town. I'd hate to see anyone try to bomb it 'cuz the people can't get out of the city on any decent road. Actually, I would like to see someone try to bomb it. That might be interesting. But, I digress.

Robert, Robert, Robert. Where are you? I've been waiting outside your house for an hour. It says here that you're the president of Anglo and Company. Don't they make cigarettes? Hell, I don't know. None of my business. Like I said, I just shoot what they throw at me.

But it's fun, and that's why I keep doing it.

I may be invisible, but damn is it cold in this tree, what with the being naked and all. Son of a bitch I need to piss. Hurry up and get home you donkey-fucking bastard! Some of us would like to sneak into the Bulls locker room!

From this vantage point I can see into Bob's house. Nice little set-up. I really dig the oriental rugs and the velvet drapes. Swanky. Too bad that rug is going to be stained beyond belief in a few minutes. A damn shame.

Here comes Mrs. Bob, carrying a bouncing baby boy. Damn. I hate shooting when kids are around. I hate shooting kids. But, a mission's a mission. That damn Gonzales kid got away just in time. He doesn't know how close he was to getting a bullet in his ass as he was heading back to Cuba.

Mrs. Bob is feeding the kid. Sheesh lady, if I were you I'd have a nanny do that. And clean the kid's crap up. I guess I'm not "mother material". Although that would be funny to see...

A little kid yelling at his invisible mother. But again, I digress.

If that dickhead doesn't get home soon, I'm going to shoot someone's cat or something. It's too damn cold in Chicrapo. I'm a California girl; I need beaches and warmth, not lake winds and snowstorms.

Bob!! Hey! Bob! Where the Christ are you?

And suddenly, there's Bob! Pulling into the driveway in a (what else?) SUV. I swear, it's a penis metaphor.

Lifting my rifle (and dear God, do I love this rifle!), I try to get a good shot through the scope, but the angle's no good. Dammit. I'll have to wait until he gets in the house.

Another five minute wait and Bob's walking into the dining room. Kissy for the wife, kissy for the kid and now the hammer on my rifle is knocked. Squinting through the scope, aiming, bracing, smiling...

BAM!

The shot rings out and the bullet flies from the end of my rifle, across the yard, slicing right through that huge window, past those velvety drapes, right between that bouncy baby boy and his preening mother. Right between Robert Williamson's eyes.

Screams fill the night and Bob goes down. Direct hit, Marcie. Damn I'm good.

Mommy's screaming and covered in blood, the baby's licking at his daddy's brains, squalling like I shot him instead. Bob...well...Bob's a mess. And he ain't getting up.

My tiny little radio crackles and I speak softly.

"Harvey here. Silver Zippo completed. Harvey out." My job is done now and I'll be adding another notch to my rifle. Bob makes two hundred.

Out of the tree and into the night. Sirens wail and police pass, but none stop. They don't see me or the smile I'm still smiling. I imagine if they could, I'd look like the Cheshire Cat. Now that'd be something.

Okay, so maybe I am a thundering looney. So what? At least I make a living.

THE END.