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  • This is my Blog...There are many like it, but this one is mine...

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        Friday, August 15, 2008

    He Joins The Club...

    He sat on the bed in his hotel room, and checked his gun. Again. It was a habit he didn't mind having, even if it was a bit OCD. He had loaded the big automatic while wearing his thin leather gloves, and as he slipped the slide back, sure enough, there was a round in the chamber. The same round that had been there the last ten times he'd checked.

    He grasped the silencer and made sure it wasn't loose...it wasn't, and the bedside table alarm clock beeped, to tell him it was time to go. He turned off the alarm, hooked up the brick of C-4 to wires he had previously exposed, slid his pistol into the nylon under arm shoulder holster, picked up the small bag he had brought, and left the room. Before leaving completely, he hooked another wire up to a small black box at the top of the door, and a small LED light on it went green. So did a light on the block of C-4. If someone entered the room, it would sterilize automatically.

    You really didn't want to see the red light. If left alone, his bomb would go off in an hour. He needed to hurry. The explosion would keep the police busy. And he had work to do...

    He drove to the Holidome two miles away in record time. Without breaking any traffic laws. He had practiced for a week. Tonight was the night. His employer didn't know who among them would change human history, so he was getting paid to kill them all. And the pay was very good. And he never asked why. They had pissed somebody off, or whatever, and he always got paid. Or else.

    He had been in contact with these guys at something called 'Rampant Loon Press' for months, now, long enough to have gained their trust. Become one of them. He'd even written some silly stories, to fit in. And tonight, they would die.

    He had already checked into the Holidome via computer, so he just handed over his printout, and they gave him his keycard. He was an imposing figure, in a wide-brimmed hat, a black Confederate-type uniform shirt, black jeans, all covered by a black canvas duster. The motorcycle boots completed the ensemble.
    He had found that any witnesses left alive only saw the clothes.
    He headed upstairs to the conference room where the writer's group was supposed to assemble, and walked in. He had been deliberately late, so everyone else was already there. His was the only name tag left to give out.
    A very sweet looking woman snatched his nametag off of the sheet, and rushed at him, gushing about how much she had enjoyed his stories. She obviously had a good heart, so he drew and shot her in it.

    Then he fired and reloaded and fired and reloaded until nobody moved. Then he slipped in a 25 round magazine, and went methodically around the room, putting two more rounds into each head. All with no more noise than microwaving a bag of popcorn.

    He didn't think he could have done this job, if it wasn't for what his employer had showed him. One of these men would have ended the world.

    No chance of that now.