... where... the... where the !@#$ am I... can't see... can't hear... can't hear anything... no conversations, no radio signals, not even a cellphone talking to itself...
... did someone take the eye out of my head... can't remember... should remember something like that... nothing in here but my mind and I can't feel anything either and oh !@#$ oh !@#$ am I... am I...
... dead?
...
Senor Coconut's
2:30 AM
10/6/11
Der Beobachter stomped down the cold, concrete hall, feuerpistolen drawn and smiling behind his skull mask, made of the same indestructible metal as the rest of his armor. Today would be a good day for the Reich.
He could hardly believe his luck when the Legion called with the job. A chance to kill the hated American monster who had killed the Fuhrer? And be paid a half a billion dollars to do it? Surely the Aryan Gods of vengeance were smiling upon him, today.
True, it would not be the most glorious of assassinations. There would be no great battle in the world's arena, with all eyes upon the conflagration. Just a swift and lethal execution in this decadent den that catered to the rich and perverse.
No one but he would be able to see his victory, and feel joy at SPYGOD's demise. As for those who would feel otherwise, there would soon be facilities to deal with them.
(And tall smokestacks, burning into the night.)
But the victory was long in coming, and there had been many casualties. In their name, and for their honor, he would gladly slay this jumped-up untermensch, even if it was in such horribly reduced (and less than glorious) circumstances.
Ahead was a door. Behind the door was the most private of private suites. The target had been seen entering it an hour ago, along with no less than six preening prostitutes of questionable gender. By now he should be just distracted enough for Beobachter to get the jump on him.
So Beobachter laughed, and his laugh was a grating, metallic thing. He raised his guns and leaped towards the door so as to kick it in, fearing nothing on the other side. The wood shattered inward, letting him through with only token resistance.
And as soon as he was through, and into that carnal pit of yellow silk and pink pillows, of long beds and soft couches, he aimed his pistols at the first SPYGOD-like thing he saw. The man-beast had his back to the door (the fool!) and, taking this as a sign of the rightness of his mission, Beobachter pulled both triggers and screamed the name of the Fuhrer, overjoyed to be the one to burn his assassin to cinders.
The guns flared. Fire flew across the room. The pale white form on the bed ignited and began to scream.
Beobachter laughed...
... oh !@#$. That's right. The party at Julio's. I was just going in for round 22 when someone kicked the door in. And he...
he...
...
.. wait, no. That's not how it happened. Something else happened before that... hard to think... but it was the morning. I know it was the morning because I was !@#$ naked as a jaybird, and wasn't quite drunk yet... and...
and...
Ronson Towers (across from The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.)
7:01 AM,
10/5/11
The man with the really large, extremely long rifle gazed across the divide between the two buildings, mentally judging distances, windspeed, and other factors. A helicopter flew by, but he didn't even blink. The No Suit made sure no one else saw him.
And if the target did, it'd be just before he bought it. Guaranteed.
The target's routine was like clockwork, according to his employer's intel. Every morning the guy got up, shooed whomever he'd brought home out, and began a punishing regimen of drugs, alcohol, coffee, and some weird Asian medicinal treatment. A few hours later his massive anti-gravity carrier would appear to whisk him away for the rest of the day, and then, when it was over, he'd disappear back into the building and be safe behind its walls.
But every morning, just after sending the hookers home, and just before starting the binge, he would treat himself to a semi-nude strut across the penthouse patio, not giving a !@#$ who saw what at that hour.
And in that moment, the Flyshooter would end him.
Yes, Flyshooter. Not a great name for a cold-blooded, contract assassin, but no one who knew of him took it in vain.
Flyshooter had 378 confirmed kills. The first fifty were from serving his country in 'Nam. The rest were from serving himself by working freelance, both in the world's many militarized hellholes and in the assassinations market.
The story was that he really could shoot a fly off a rock from half a mile away, even without specialist equipment. And he had, though it was a fluke shot, much like the time he'd decapitated a man with one shot from a .38 special, just to prove it could be done.
Of course, that was before he had this gun. Now there were no more flukes. Just planned shots, and perfect, superhuman deliveries.
The Legion had his number, but he didn't like to think of himself as a "supervillain." He was just a skilled professional with a catchy handle and a good marketing strategy. He killed king and commoner alike on behalf of commoner and king, took the money, and melted off into anonymity before anyone could even say the word "contract assassin."
This one, however, could change things. If word got out that he killed The SPYGOD, well... he could probably afford ten more guns like the one he'd been using to make his bones.
Saying the Flyshooter's gun was "special" was putting it mildly. It truly was one of a kind, according to the alien weaponsmiths he'd bought it from, that one Outland, about ten years back. It'd cost more money than five wealthy people tend to see in their lifetime, but after that one hit job he'd done, the sky was the limit, and he spent it accordingly.
The word they used to describe it was "isomorphic-adaptive." It means that, when linked up with his mind, the gun would change its shape to produce any desired shot needed just by thinking about it. The barrel's width could be widened, narrowed, lengthened, or shortened accordingly, and it could take any bullet he needed for any job.
With this gun, he could put any bullet you'd care to name anywhere on the victim you'd like it to go, and have any desired effect you'd like. And he charged on a bell curve, with the most spectacular, loud, and nasty effects costing as much as the most quiet and subtle of endings, and with "normal" shots, no matter how tricky, being much less expensive.
He hardly needed the scope, but kept it anyway, just because he liked to see his work up close and personal. That and he needed to be sure the target was dead. It wasn't so much professionalism as it was security; there was nothing worse than having a "completed" contract come sniffing around for a rematch.
Not that there would be one with this SPYGOD. The gun was loaded with combustibullets. One good, solid hit, and they'd fractionate inside a red-blooded target, and burn it to cinders from the inside out. Spontaneous human combustion by way of the gun store.
And according to his intel, fire was the one thing SPYGOD wouldn't walk away from.
Speaking of walking, the moment was here. The doors to the patio swung open, and out walked SPYGOD, naked, just shy of drunk, and obviously unashamed.
One moment of zen. One more moment to swing the gun around. Another to get a bead on the sweet spot for this kind of ammo: smack in the breastbone, to guarantee a slow-down and stick, so the bullet could do its job.
(Yet one more moment to stare at the freakish thing he had for genitalia. Jesus !@#$ Christ, that was horrifying. No wonder he had to pay for sex...)
Then it was just the desire, and its realization as the gun shifted to the perfect shape and size, and his mind said "fire."
And...
... and then he shot me. I remember the pain. I remember the shock and wondering why I felt so !@#$ warm.
I remember being surprised that I was surprised by this. I remember wondering how I hadn't seen him, across the way in that stupid !@#$ worthless No Suit that I can see right through like it's just a !@#$ sheet of saran wrap...
I feel dulled. I feel like I'm only a fraction of myself. Why...
Not dead.
I can't be dead then if I'm dead again later the same night. I can't be. It makes no !@#$ sense.
I can't be dead. I won't be. It's not death if you don't accept it. I will not accept this.
I can't.
(SPYGOD is listening to Melt (Siouxsie And the Banshees) and wishes he was drinking a Fantome Black Ghost )
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