you have to be somewhere. When you say somewhere, you mean across the pond. Good thing it's still early-ish. You might still make it. A sketchy fellow named Lucas Easton tried to hire you yesterday-- three days ago, actually but sleeping schedule aside-- you want to know what the bugger is up to. So you made a few calls, had a DNA analysis done on a hair you found that turned out to be yours and waited around a lot. All you learned from that whole deal was he'd be in America tomorrow looking for a sniper. Probably to replace you since you turned him down. That's what really tore it. Whoever he was working for just thought they could replace you like that. They had someone else in mind even. The nerve of it. The sheer unadulterated nerve. So you knew who it must be. That nutter staying in Colorado. Well, last time you checked she was, she might have moved on by now. Absolutely bonkers. She was the only one it could possibly be. Okay, not really, but you're dead certain of this one so just let it happen. Wait. What is that? Oh, yeah. Your doorbell is calibrated to play Tiny Dancer today. Why did you even get that done? It seemed so novel while you were drunk that time. But a month of 8-bit Elton John later and you're just about sick to death of it. It's probably your sunglasses that you ordered last week either way. Is there no way to make it stop? Is there no peace from this torment? It's what you were waiting on anyway. When you open the door a messenger is there with a package that's labeled with the same brand as those sunglasses you ordered. He asks for a signature. You [] grab the package and slam the door. [] sign your current alias. [] sign something else. [] start flirting with him.
HIs nametag says Nate. Nate... You haven't had this one before. You briefly think of adding him to the count but he's not really that good looking. In fact he's almost as short as you. Lame. So you grab the package from him, start signing your current alias but then decide to finish with a new surname. You can't be too careful around folk these days. He smiles at you revealing a set of crooked, yellowing stereotypes. You slam the door promptly, only hoping his face was close enough for you to knock a few of the buggers out for you. You run the box through a metal detector next to your door. It's clean. Though there are a few chemical weapons that could be hidden in there that don't need any metal, they'd hardly make it through a trip in a box like this one. So you tear it open. Big surprise. It's sunglasses. Why did you even want these? Ray Bands? Ray Brands? What even does that mean? You toss them aside. If you weren't paid so damn well, you might have a spending problem. What were you doing again? Oh yeah, you've got a psychobitch to see. You were about to print out your plane tickets before you were distracted. What distracted you?
You were about to eat. Yeah that's right, you were about to finish off that pizza from last night. You're supposed to be on a diet, but let's be completely honest with yourself. You've never been fat by any stretch of the imagination unless you're counting some of your more conspicuous endowments. Why were you even on a diet? Maybe it's your generally unhealthy eating habits you were trying to fix. Regardless of any of that pointless drivel, you've got a pizza with your name quite figuratively on it. Alright. Here it is in all its cold, hard, day old glory. Your banana, pineapple, jalaepeno and pepperoni pizza. As you're working your way through your first slice, you realize it's missing something. Yeah it's missing something alright. Needs more mayonnaise. After you've rectified that oversight in the manufacturing process it's time to get a move on. Seriously, you have somewhere to be, what's all this wherewithall about pizza you've got going on. There are people that desperately need you to get revenge on them and a psychobitch who is going to help you do that whether she is aware of it or not. You've got an hour before you've got to leave for the airport. You haven't packed your... anything, yet. Perhaps now's the time to get on that. You [] Pack up a set of cute clothes and check to see if your package has made it to the States yet. [] Pack up a set of conservative clothes and call a guy about a gun. [] Pack up whatever and get a move on early. [] Don't pack anything and stop by Lemarckus' place.
Your head is oddly clear. No internal arguments, just a single driven purpose. It's less interesting but it saves time and effort. So you grab an outfit that won't stand out. Something that exudes that air or demure and reservation that is precisely antithetical to your personality. They'll be completely and utterly fooled. The tossers. Whoever they are. They'll see you and they'll think you're innocent and pure as a freshly fallen snowflake. Or a nun. Nuns are pretty nonthreatening. It's just a sweater and a long skirt you remind yourself. Nuns have wimples. Those things are probably the only threatening thing about nuns though. Never know what's under those... Maybe even baldness. You also need to see if your Dragunov is done. It took a tumble back in Belgrade that you thought was the end of it, but Snowflake had been kind enough to salvage it for you and have it sent to your repair man. She always had a way with guns. You're pretty sure her sexuality is somehow related to it. She's never been with a man in all the years you've known her but she sleeps with that damned pistol EVERY. FUCKING. NIGHT. It's absolutely bonkers, could a piece of cold metal ever feel as good as a real... You call Calvin to see if the gun is finished with repairs and wipe the drool from your mouth. Come on, have some damn poise, ya lazy little wart. He doesn't pick up. You text his cell. He doesn't reply. What is this witchery? You have to [] make your flight. Fuck the gun, you'll buy a new one later. [] go see if Calvin's okay. Someone might have stolen your gun. [] leave now, they're after you. [] pack a little friend. If you know what you mean. Selfwink
You know what? It's fine. You don't need a pity gun. Because that's what the Dragunov is now, a sign of that bitch looking down on you. Well, you don't need it. You're going to make your flight with time to spare. Good job, you. Hell, you're going to get there with time to spare and look like a perfect little angel. You change into a set of clothes matching your packed set and leave your house but not before packing something for the long trip. You know what you mean. Not much happens on the way to the airport. Some bum tries to cop a feel, you crack him good with your elbow and tell him not to bother. You're way out of his league. He rubs his cranium with confusion and scurries off. Maybe you just look more like a quiet victim stereotype in these clothes... Bugger that. No way you're turning back now. You've arrived at the airport and [] you'd better check in early or something. Can never be too sure about these flight things. [] it's best to take a look about before doing anything. [] look for the info vendor that's here on alternating Tuesdays, every fifth Thursday, the third Friday of every month, the second Wednesday of each year and most Mondays. [] recognize Leadfoot.
