All Hallow's Eve

I'm sitting down, back against the rough bark of a tree, surveying the graveyard. Burnt out candles litter the place, a testament to the gathering that night. Hours pass by lazily, the time spent in reflection and contemplation. I keep my head down. A man's thoughts can be busy at any time, which compliments my irregular sleep schedule. Lately, I've been having dreams. Lots of dreams... Sometimes I can scarce tell when my waking hours begin and the dream world's end. I needed to clear my head. An almost incoherent flutter of wings, and a hoot indicates the arrival of the owl. The owl, sigil of Athena, watcher in the night, I would follow in your ways. Silent. Alert. Deadly. The characteristics of an Alpha Predator. It makes you wonder what kind of evolutionary fluke allowed humans to dominate in the first place. Humanity, when you take away it's tools and toys, is so weak compared to the ferocity of nature. After all, not every human has it's own set of claws. Unlike the man sitting in the graveyard at 4 AM, sent by his dreams, rambling in his mind about the significance of predator and prey, deriving it from the hooting of an Owl. It's cold, for once in this town of warmth and life, as it feels like this resting place for the dead is different, and rightfully so. I release visible breath into the air, kindling a small flame in my left hand, a source of heat among the chilled stone and dark grass. So I sit by a grave, waiting for something: a revelation, enlightenment,  the rapture, anything... And as I do, the events of the previous evening replay in my head. All Hallow's Eve.

"HE'S DEAD! HE'S DEAD! THERE IS A DEAD MAN NEAR MY NOODLES!!! SOMEBODY CALL DE COPS! HE'S HE'S DEAD! HELP ME! HE'S DEAD!!" The piercing cries elicited a sense of unease in me, as I traversed down Sycamore, lit by streetlights and glowing pumpkins. The ornate silver Masquerade mask felt comforting, obscuring half of my face from the other passerby in costume. Mr. Ling-Ling was in evident hysteria, babbling about murder. The man seemed to have a knack for shitty situations. And that's when I noticed him. The man with the flashing metal object running into an alley. It took me a moment, and I realized what I'd just witness. I weighed my options. I don't ever kill people who don't need to die. Unlike this murderer. I'd heard about him on the news. He had hardly any class, killing his targets in front of several people. He's a loose end, regardless of his intentions. And what happens to loose ends? 
They are cut off.

Ditching the half-mask, I take chase.

He notices early on, making his best efforts to shake me. "Stay back!" He ran into an abandoned building, shattering the window and breaking through. I quickly followed, kicking the door in, my trench coat flapping behind me. I heard the faint sound of the knife whistling, as he leapt out of the darkness, practically snarling. I barely dodge it, the bloodied object tearing through the fabric of my shirt. Kicking him away, I scrambled backwards in an undignified manner, then tore up a few flights of stairs, and burst into the night air, the roof above me. He emerged behind me, slowly approaching. He giggles to himself. With a strange approach, as if he's being controlled by some dark puppeteer, his walk is unbalanced. Hr brandishes the bloody knife. "I wouldn't do that." I warn. And then the roof caught fire. Sparking, shimmering, beautiful fire. It warmed the night air, leaping upwards into the field of stars. Wielding a flame in each hand, I slowly walked towards him, hiding the fact of the painful tugging in my stomach, and how much the effort of making this has drained me. It's his turn to scramble backwards. "What the hell?!" Police sirens can be heard in the distance. That could be problematic. The police can have him. He dashed back into the stairwell, away from me, and I soon spotted him in the street, still running. It wasn't really my place to begin with. I stared down the 4 stories over the edge of the building, the fires slowly dying down, my hands extinguished.

There exists a psychological phenomenon in which perfectly sane people, with no desire to die, find themselves faced with a steep cliff or tall building, and experience a strong desire to leap. To jump from their safe vantage point into the unknown. The phenomenon is so common in fact, that the French have a term for it: L'appel du Vide - Call of the Void. And I felt it strongly at the moment. I imagined my lifeless body on the ground. Blood puddling from the crumpled form. A broken neck. I was leaning outwards. And then shook my head, and pulled back. Not today. My time would come, but not today. And so I walked to the graveyard to think, not looking back for a second.

Lonesome Road

Fall sauntered in with the smugness of a late but expected and honored guest, refusing to drastically alter the weather. Still, I welcome it with open arms. Briskly exiting Maplewood, I start in the direction of Another Man's Treasure, almost bumping into a downcast young man on his way in. Aware of the crate in my arms, the force of gravity tugging it downwards, I make a split second decision. "You wouldn't happen to like vinyls, would you?" He gives me a bewildered glance, and shrugs, muttering something unintelligible. "Just take them." I was about to get rid of them anyways, and it gives me one less place to go to on my way to work. The job is incredibly dull, shifting crates for 5 hours in the back of City Lights, but I hardly notice, wrapped up in my own thoughts. The man in the purple zoot suit is nowhere to be seen. At 5:00, I drift back down Milk street to the apartments, silent as a ghost. A quick glance into Freedom tattoo, just to be safe. We have a history, this street and I. Many significant things have happened here, ingrained into my memory possibly forever. I am greeted by the smell of food cooking as I approach the statue in the roundabout. Memories flicker by with the passing of the few cars.

Laughter. Burnt food. Shouting. 

My brother and I tromping through leaf piles. He turned to me, laughing. I remember tripping. Shock and pain followed. It gets less clear here... The fire was quick and unrelenting, spreading through the pile of leaves with unholy speed. We both ended up in the hospital, the cookout ended, our parents speaking with suspicion. "It just came out of nowhere." "No way it could've started just like that." But on some level, somewhere in my head, I knew. And from then on, I told myself: No more fires. No more fires.

I shake my head, clearing my thoughts and whipping back to my current reality. I've been standing at the corner for a few minutes, and it's bound to attract some attention. I press forward, passing a pumpkin truck to the left of the building, and come to a stop as I take in the scene. People of all sorts gather to create indistinct chatter in the background. The parking lot is clear of cars, and the center is taken up by several grills preparing hotdogs, burgers, and the like. I'm approached by someone, but I'm still relatively lost in my thoughts. "I'm Lucille." A hand is stretched out. I shake it. "Nice to meet you, I'm Paul." But I hardly notice them, and can't recall their face a few seconds after. I need to get out of here. As the sun begins to slip downward, I hoist a pumpkin off the truck, and enter Maplewood Crest.

The More Permanent Resident of #1136 (also known as: The New Job)

Paul was seated in a cross legged position on the roof of Maplewood Crest, wearing nothing but a nondescript bathrobe and a pair of boxers, his hair still glistening wet from a shower. It was still dark, as the sun had yet to rise. Two sticks of incense was lit and burning before him. At this hour, the city was almost peaceful. Eyes closed, steadily breathing. For the past 30 minutes or so, the layout of the room was on his mind. The dark tan carpet that changed into tile as you moved into the kitchen.  The bed in the back corner of the room, simple, yet comfortable. The nightstand next to it.  Exploring the corner table that separated the kitchen from the rest of the room. The record player perched atop the old television set. By now, he knew his apartment like the back of his hand, and could probably navigate it blindfolded. But, it all slipped away, as something clicked. For the moment, he had found serenity. Thoughts came and went, gently flowing down a river through his head, in and then out of existence. This was freedom. This was understanding. “To understand the immeasurable, the mind must be extraordinarily quiet, still.” A quote from his latest read. But the book hardly mattered now. He was at one with the universe. Until his phone rang.

"Dammit." I growl, before switching into a more elegant, reserved tone, when I answer the cell. The small flame of the incense sticks extinguishes at the moment of my disruption from harmony. Unknown Caller, the screen reads. "This is Robert Jones." "This is John Smith." "Is this line secure?" "Probably not." "The weather out of town isn't looking so good. You might want to stay a while. You could get caught in a storm, and that wouldn't be very good." "Maybe I could buy an umbrella?" "It wouldn't work. I suggest making yourself comfortable where you are." The line cut off. From what I've just gathered, my target's friends have not been unaware of recent events. I'm in deep shit.

I need a cover. And soon. Otherwise, I'm screwed. I can't leave the city. Which means, unfortunately, settling in a little further. I walk up down Maplewood, Sap, and Riverwood, glancing at the various shops and stores. A man with dark hair, a redheaded woman, and a little boy are walking together by the Karmic cafe. They catch my eye, for some reason. I need something a little quieter. Then it occurs to me. That dingy bookshop. City Lights. It's perfect. Once I again, I head down the all too familiar Milk Street, the pavement rough against my shoes. I've come in a semi casual suit, for a decent impression. It's still early, but the sun is peeking up over the buildings. I take it all in: the morning air, the cars beginning to start up as residents get to their jobs. With a sigh of resignation, I slink into the dimly lit City Lights. A man in a purple zoot suit stands inside, a confident air about him. His face is half obscured in shadow, despite the early morning light. He smirks at me. I ask the question. "Are there any positions open?"

The Man in Freedom Tattoo

Dancing at my finger tips, I idly tease a flame through my fingers. It bounces back and forth, hand to hand, I am as at ease with the fire as a juggler is to his knives. No gut pain this time, though. Just the slight... tugging. There's really no other way to describe the feeling. Figures. I've been using it often enough, and in a big way. Today is a good day. No assignments for a few months, at the very least. The city smells wet and clean after the torrential rains earlier, the smell tickling my nostrils as I sit by the open window. Still humid as hell though, this Summer's heat isn't gone yet. A burning smell permeates into my room. Smells like... linen? Honestly. Why is somebody burning linen? I know what you're thinking, but I make an effort not to set things on fire inside, especially in my place of residence. This is about standards, people. My thoughts move elsewhere, to the events of today. An interesting man. Who is-BEEP BEEP BEEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP. Oh for fucks sake. The smoke detector. Extinguishing the small flame in my left hand, I storm over to it, clumsily fiddling in an effort to turn the damn thing off. BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEE-. I return to my thoughts, thinking I'll make an effort to be more mindful. Inadvertently, I'd managed to set it off. My skills are both a blessing and a curse.

Earlier in the day, I'd made an executive decision that my radio days were over. I was going to buy a record player. In my opinion, vinyl sounds much better. I'm old fashioned that way. It was one out of several errands I was making, in an effort to make my dingy little place more welcoming. Nothing over the top, of course. I tend to have to drop everything and leave it behind, in my line of work. The walk was rather uneventful. I stopped by "City Lights" bookshop, picking up some reading material. "City Lights". It hardly deserved the name, small and scarcely lit as it was. But it was still a bookstore, and that's what I needed. I went to the record store next, buying a player and several vinyls. Most of it jazz, of course. But as I was walking back to Maplewood Crest, I felt a pair of eyes on me. I stopped dead in my tracks, the satchel bag with my goods limp at my side. A quick glance to the left, and then to the right. My eyes lock with a man inside the tattoo parlor, noticeably not tattooed himself, save for his wrists. His eyes are piercing. My job is to be a ghost, a fleeting memory in most people's heads. These are eyes that notice things. Especially things out of the ordinary. I break off the eye contact, casually but briskly moving away. A man with that notices the unnoticeable, the unordinary, the unusual, things that are different. A smirk surfaces on my face, which turns into a macabre grin. I would know. Because I, Paul Turner, am most unmistakably unusual.

Second Thoughts

The rain comes down from the sky with a vengeance, almost as if some old, dead god was weeping. I lay spread eagled on the bed in the small room staring at the stucco ceiling. Hints of jazz softly whisper from the radio on the side table, barely audible. Listening to the staccato patter of the rain, it's almost cozy. I shift into a sitting position to glance at the digital clock. 1:47 PM. Lightning flashes outside the flats window, with a low roll of thunder following close behind. I reach over to tap the radio, cutting off the music. I lie there just letting it all envelop me. It's the most peaceful I've felt in a while. Somehow, my mind wanders back to the events of this morning. The sky was dark and foreboding at 6 AM when it started to rain. I walked out onto the street, clad in a dark coat. Still groggy with sleep, I stepped over the shattered head of a gargoyle, realizing how long it'd been there. Either the management didn't know, or just didn't care. Probably the latter. I crossed the mostly abandoned street, the smell of wet pavement filling my nostrils. I glance up at the statue in the roundabout. The plaque proclaimed it to be "Major General Maplewood III". Heading down Milk Street, I hardly looked at the surrounding shops. I was walking towards the abandoned warehouse. Some odd crazy is leaning back and forth on the subway steps across the street, muttering. I don't have a good feeling about this. There are two men in shadow, one kneeling, one standing. The latter steps into the light from the ceiling, and I recognize him. He's my informant. A short man in his 40's, dressed in a trench coat, his face hidden behind a hat. "Can you get rid of him?" He gestures to the man kneeling next to him, hands tied behind his back. Nodding almost imperceptibly, I glance at the man I'm supposed to dispose of. I'm the best at what I do. Weapons cannot be traced to me. I don't leave behind bullets or evidence. And my precision is deadly. I'm unique in my business, for many reasons. I walk around behind him, and point a finger gun towards him, my shoes making plodding footsteps that echo across the room. The man is shaking nervously, and the smell of must about the warehouse is abundant. The tugging sensation is there again, as smoke and sparks begin to trail from my hands. "Bang." I say, with a sort of grim humor in my voice. We both don gloves as we drag the body into an old crate in the corner, sealing it for him to be found some other time. The hole in the back of his head is still smoking. A rumble of thunder jolts me out of my memories, rain still tapping away at the window. I light another cigarette.Why am I still thinking about it? It's not my job to dwell on who my marks are. But I still keep going back to it. Did the man have people who cared for him? A friendly brother, a loving daughter, a family? It haunts me. I turn the knob of the radio back up, as If I could drown out my second thoughts and mourning with smooth jazz alone. I start to doze off, with a last thought in my head. I really ought to get a lighter...

The Job

The day began with water. Dripping from the ceiling, it repetitively dropped onto my face as I groggily blinked my eyes. "Eunghh" I grunted as I stumbled up from the bed, pushing the rough cover off of me. What time was it? 6:00 PM. Another humid summer day was coming to an end, and I had slept through most of it. Admittedly, I hadn't gotten a wink of sleep the night before. The kind of business I'm in, you have late hours. Very late.  A fan spun lazily on the ceiling, slowly but surely wafting air currents around the small, somewhat decrepit room. Just my luck, the room I'd needed to rent happened to be the cheapest- and the most run down. But Maplewood Crest wasn't all that bad. One of the benefits, was the excellent view of Room #917 in the now abandoned Little Soldier's Inn across the alleyway. I had gone over to plant the bugs a month before. Unfortunately for them, they'd formed a habit. And forming habits is a most dangerous thing, especially for men such as them. I plodded over to the fridge, the floor changing from brown carpet to tile in the kitchen. The cool feeling of the tile was welcome against the bare skin of my feet. As I pulled out a bottle of water from the fridge, taking a swig, causing soothing water to run down my parched throat. I mused about last night's job. Simply listening to to them talk was easy enough, but it was only the first half of the job. Now, to do something about that dripping. I pulled on some jeans and a shirt before I left my room, and quickly assessed myself in the mirror. I locked eyes with my reflection, staring deep into the hazel orbs. The hallway was dimly lit, and the stairwell even more so, the slightly amber light illuminating the bare minimum necessary for vision. I ran a hand through my close cropped, dark brown hair as I arrived near the top of the stairs. I slowly approached the door, almost hesistant. Room #1146 of the 14th floor was the room directly above mine, #1136, and was almost certainly the source of the water. I lightly rapped on the door. When there was no answer, I eased it open, it being unlocked. I scanned the room to see a deflated water bed surrounded by a growing puddle. Exasperated, I sighed, and returned to my room.


After placing a bucket on the bed to catch the growing amounts of water coming through the ceiling, I sat to read on the couch. The book was on Taoism, one of the many philosophy books on my personal reading list. I tried not to think about the men in #917. You don't think of your marks as people. You don't use their names. Nor do you do anything to personify them. It makes it harder to kill them. A bad conscience is the last thing you want to be dealing with. Daylight was beginning to fade outside the window, sunset approaching. As I sat musing in my thoughts, the power blinked out. Worst of all, the fan stopped moving. I cracked open a window. "The power decides to quit in this goddamn heat?" I thought. In an especially bad mood, I reached for my box of cigarettes in the drawer. I had been trying to quit, but I needed something to relax. Out of force of habit, I searched for a lighter. But then I stopped. I felt just the slightest... tugging sensation. And leaned back into the couch, taking a drag from the single lit cigarette.