the road to nowhere

I was almost invisible leaning against the tree. I was hidden under a plastic camouflage tarp, which I had lined with an insulated blanket. The only parts of me not covered were my eyes. The antique .22 magnum rifle lay beside me under the tarp. I had arranged the tarp so that I could easily slide it off me and then raise the rifle for a quick shot.

The exercise was more to sharpen my skills, than it was about killing the small game. I delivered the small animals to a share cropper commune several miles away. I wasn't about to kill small game just to kill it. If I couldn't find someone who needed the meat, I would have cooked and eaten it myself. I would much rather feed the hungry, than to eat the animals myself.

I sat leaning against some tree, in some part of the forest, almost every winter morning. Now and then, but not often, my cell phone would vibrate as it did that morning. I gently moved the tarp aside just enough to read the caller ID. Since it was Betty Jo with Swamp Thing, I answered it. The day's hunt was already ruined so there was no need to move slowly.

"Good Morning Betty Jo what's the problem?"

"You are being summoned."

"Oh, now who would want a worn out old man?"

"Jeff, that is for me to know and you to come find out. Be in the office tomorrow morning around ten and you will find out."

"Should I bring anything.?"

"Donuts," she replied.

Swamp Thing got it's nickname from the fact that it was located inside the great dismal swamp of eastern North Carolina. It was located twenty miles from the nearest town. The town was so small it had only one grocery store and one diner nothing else. The people who worked in the aministration of Swamp Thing lived in a compound, which had started life as a boy scout camp. The cabins which were designed to hold six camper now held one employeed at least a few days a week.

Since I lived just a five hour drive from the compound, it was possible for me to drive there from my home. Most of the other part time employees had to fly into a regional airport, rent a car and then make the same five hour drive. Only two had their own small planes, those could land on a dirt airstrip, which got minimal maintenance from contractors hired by Swamp Thing.

"Donuts it is, how many should I bring?" It was a subtle way of asking would it be a meeting with someone or a briefing.

"Three dozen Krispy Kreme should do it."

"Can do, and jelly filled for me and you."

"Of course," she said with a giggle, not befitting a middle aged woman.

I put it out of my mind until I got home. At that time I gave it the thought that it deserved. Three dozen donuts made it a briefing. That made it more than just a one or two man operation this time. That happened now and then, but it was the exception not the rule. Swamp Thing used men generally who were not good at taking orders. A partner is a friend, three operatives require a boss type relationship. Me and most of the others were just not good with that kind of structure. It was a stretch every time I went on one of those things. A constant fight to keep control of my emotions. Now imagine a dozen armed men struggling to keep from killing the boss every minute of every day. It did not make for a good situation in any way whatsoever.

"So you are going to do it anyway?" Gloria asked.

"Yes I am going to do it. If I were to refuse too many jobs, Betty Jo would stop calling," I informed her.

"So?"

"So, I need the money. You can't live in this kind of luxury without a job." Gloria looked at the small but filthy fishing cabin before she answered.

"Yeah this is real luxury. Even the slums of Bagdad are cleaner."

"What I need is a good woman," I said smiling.

"You have a good woman, me. What you need is a bad woman to make you clean this place."

"Just as soon as I get back," I promised.

I oiled the antique rifle before I put it away. Being an antique the finish was pretty much gone. It had to be oiled with every use to prevent rust. I paid a lot for the small caliber rifle because it had a big caliber type sighting system. I had never seen such a good sight on such a small bore rifle. Most likely when it was made, a hundred years ago, it had been a match rifle. A rifle used in competition like the olympics or something similar.

midnight visitor

I spent the night with Gloria, my own personal ghost. Gloria didn't stay in one place as ghosts are supposed to do. Nope. Gloria followed me around from place to place. Last night she showed up in my bed in the middle of the night. You guessed it, Gloria and I made love. It was a first for my sick mind. I mean come on sex with a ghost. Yes I do question my sanity now and then. I did it last night as much for the verbal exchange after as for the apparitional sex act.

After the sex she said, "You did good today. You let that jackass at the restaurant live."

"Gloria, you know I don't kill unless I am being paid."

"Jeffy, you know that isn't true. You just found a way to make killing pay. You would do it for nothing, if you wanted someone dead."

"Killing is a last resort, not a first option. The guy in the cafe was far from a last resort."

"So what would you have done, if he had decided to test you?"

"Most likely put a blade to his throat and toss him out."

"And if he came back?"

"Then it might be headed to a 'final solution' kind of ending."

"See, if you wanted him dead, he would die, payment or not."

"Yes but I have never had anyone decide they wanted to go that far over a gallon of gas."

"If you say so. Now I have to go." At that point she was indeed gone leaving me to doubt my sanity yet again.

Home again, home again

From ninety degree weather to forty degrees is a dramatic change. That was the difference between the temperature on the cruise ship and the temperature inside my dad's fishing cabin. I have been living in the shack for three years, but it was still his cabin. Where ever he is I hope he knows that it is being used by me. He would like the fact that I finally came to enjoy the old place. I had hated it as a kid, but kids hate everything their parents love. It's a law of nature like getting old, I guess.

I was almost surprised to see the place standing. Then again I always was after a trip of any length, especially during the winter. I was never too sure of the shack's wiring, but I had to leave the power turned on during the winter months even when I was away. If I didn't leave it on, the water pump at the well head would freeze. Then I would really be screwed. My dad had used a light bulb in the well house to keep it warm. I wrapped the pump in a heat tape with thermostat. Nonetheless the power had to be left on to keep it working. That seemed to be a risk but an unavoidable one.

When I left for a trip, I turned the water off at the pump. In the winter I would then have to drain the water from the pipes to keep them from freezing. A burst pipe was no fun at all. I had made a few improvements in the shack, but I kept them to a minimum. I underpinned the shack with fake rock like those used for mobile homes. The shack had only eight windows, so installing storm windows was a snap. During my forced vacation of three years, I installed those and a couple of storm doors.

I could have insulated the walls, but then I would have had to replace the siding. I liked the old weathered board and battens. It made the place look like the shack it was. I did spray ground up old newspaper into the ceilings from the outside. The metal roof got painted as well. The place was still only about forty percent fuel efficient but even that much helped.

The only heat had been a wood stove when I moved in. I lived with that for all of my parolee days, but during the last six months I had been traveling more. As a consequence I had less time to do chores, so I found an antique coal stove. I knew I was on the EPA hit list, but I really didn't care since they have the worst assassins. It would be years before they got around to me.

I liked the coal much better than wood. I could get more heat from a much a lower volume of fuel. Not only that it was easier to store the fuel and the stove gave me better control of the heat levels. At the same time the stove was installed, I had a metal liner installed inside the chimney. My dad's idea of a chimney had been an unlined concrete prefab block kind of thing. The liner would be easier to clean and much safer the chimney sweep assured me.

So that day, I turned on the water and lit a fire in the stove before I did anything else. The shack was just one big room, so the one stove seemed to work pretty well. It did take a while to heat the large volume of air that had been twenty degrees over night.

While it heated up, I drove to the diner about five miles away. The diner had started life as the two car work bay of a service station. The service station was no longer pumping gas, but it was still a pump your own location. The warning, 'credit cards only', was posted in big letters.

I ordered breakfast at five in the afternoon from a window booth. I had promised myself that I would eat no more than one meal a day at the diner. I also promised myself it would be breakfast, so no matter the time of day, I ordered breakfast.

I watched a middle aged man pull his fancy car up to the pump, remove the nozzle, stick it into his gas tank opening only to find that nothing happened. I was pretty sure that the drive of the big shiny new car could read, he just hadn't bothered. He seemed to be really upset as he walked to the diner.

"Can anyone here make that damn pump work. I am almost out of gas." He was a big man and menacingly angry.

The teenaged girl behind the counter was intimidate, but there was nothing she could do. "I'm sorry sir, it is credit or debit card only."

"Obviously I don't have a credit card," he replied in a still angry voice.

"I'm sorry sir, there is nothing I can do. I have nothing to do with the pumps, I work here in the grill."

I noticed that the cook didn't come to her rescue, but then why should the older lady get involved, there was nothing she could do either. I knew I should have stayed out of it, but the diner was the only thing standing between me and my lousing cooking. Therefore it was defuse the situation woth the stranger, or take the change that he might just decide to break the place up.

"Tell you what friend, Give me twenty bucks and I'll swipe my card for you," I suggested. "You can pump the twenty and be on your way."

"And if it won't hold twenty?" he replied angrily.

"Never mind," I said standing. I walked over to him as I said, "Tell you what friend, why don't you just drive to the next station. It's only about ten miles into Gulf." Gulf was the name of the closest town.

He was bigger, but he didn't have that hard look about him. He just looked angry. Being angry just might get him killed, if he couldn't get past it.

"I don't know if I can make it that far." he said more reasonably.

"Well you should have thought of that two minutes ago. Now your only choice is to pray." He looked at me and got the message. Most people did since they tell me I have dead eyes, whatever that means.

The man wasn't overtly angry when he left the diner, he was just seething. I did hope he wouldn't have a heart attack. Actually I think the waitress wished him a quick death. Teenager's emotions seem to run wide open all the time.

My breakfast came while I was having my discussion with the angry stranger. Deloris the teenager placed it on my table, then refilled my coffee. I found it all waiting for me. She had rushed to do it since it got her away from the angry stranger.

"Thanks," she said unenthusiastically when I sat down. She didn't have any real understanding of what might have happened. To her I just said a few words and it all went away, no biggy. What she didn't know was that it might have escalated into violence, if I had been in the place. Even with me interceding he might still have been a drunk or a bad assed redneck. In either case there could have been violence. Things like that happen everyday. They usually end just like that incident had. Then on a different day the guy pulls out a pistol and kills everyone. Life is a crap shoot, but the teenager didn't have a clue what might have happened. Unfortunately I did and it did not make me a better man for it.

The journey to where I was.

The cruise ship gave me three days to relive my life, such as it had been. It had hardly been roses and cinnamon buns in the mornings. It had been more like weeds and dog crap on your shoes.

From a poor southern mill family to the United States Army. It was a familiar route where I grew up. Most all the super marksmen came from a hunting background. I was no exception. On an almost daily basis, I had hunted small animals . Some years, the family depended on them for food. I never killed for sport, everything got eaten. There were also no hunting seasons for the poor of Chatham County. I hunted every day that I wasn't in school or working.

Since the only weapon the family could afford was a .22 rifle, I learned patience and how to make the shots count. My dad not only taught me by example, but also by rationing the cartridges. Three per hunt. When they were gone, he sent me to the car to wait. It wasn't too many years until I returned at the end of the day with some, if not all, of the ammunition still in my pocket. If there were missing shells, there were dead animals in my flour sack.

I did two years of my three year enlistment as a sniper assigned to a rifle company. I had a dozen or more confirmed kills when I stepped on the land mine. The rag heads had a nasty habit of taking half the charge from the mine. War with the Russians had taught them that it was better to injure a soldier than kill him. It take two more soldiers to get him off the battlefield, if he is screaming.

Besides it was a good reminder, not just to him and his family, but to everyone who saw him, just what shitty war it was. Nothing like a man with both legs blow off to make enlistments falter. In my case I lost only one leg. Just some kind of lucky break I guess.

You know that is kind of a stupid statement. I didn't lose the damn thing, it was on the stretcher with me till I got to the trauma unit. If anyone lost it, the medics did.

"So I see you are writing your autobiography again," it was Gloria's voice.

"What's it to you?"

"You know you could make it a little more glamorous. All the guys on the other side do that. They are all heroes, while you are just a victim to hear you tell it."

"I'm no victim, but I'm no hero either."

"Well you could tell some of the good things you did as well as the killing."

"You don't know what I have done. All you know is that I managed to get you killed."

"Right, why don't you just put on a swim suit and let's go lay by the pool."

"Right, you in a bikini with your veil, and me in a small suit with my scars and titanium leg. What a sight that would be."

"You know I wouldn't be caught dead in a bikini. Oh yeah," she said. Gloria sometimes forgot that she was dead. After a moment she changed the subject. "Don't forget the CIA years. I love when you think about those."

"Why do all you rag heads hate the CIA?"

"Just give that some thought," she suggested.

"Besides they don't use near as many snipers since they have sold the world on how great that drone thing is." I replied.

"Yes, now instead of killing one wrong person, you can kill fifty at a time. No wonder us rag heads hate the CIA." With that she vanished. She had a hard time with arguments. She liked to give her view then leave before I could respond. On that subject we actually thought alike, so I wouldn't have had a good comeback.

The killing the wrong man crack was a direct slap at me. The reference was to the incident that got me a prison term. There is just no excuse for shooting a corrupt politician's brother by mistake. To appease the government somebody had to take the fall. Since I wasn't really on the direct payroll of the CIA, I took the fall. They even managed to put the blame on Swamp Thing, who I had never even heard of at the time.

I got five years for the shooting. I was lucky not to do life. Two of those years I spent in a medium security country club close to home. The location didn't matter since nobody came to visit me anyway. After two years I was released on parole. I took my nickel and dime disability pension, and moved into my dad's old fishing cabin.

I managed to make my first two visits to the parole office before Swamp Thing came calling. That isn't their real name, but it kind of fits them. A term of any parole is that the parolee not carry a handgun, I never have had much use for them anyway, Swamp Thing found a use for me even with that condition. Not as an employee, since that would be bad for business. I was after all a convicted felon. No, I did contract jobs for them, mostly things no one else would do. The three years finally ended and the jobs for ST increased in number and complexity.

Which after two more years led me to a cruise ship. I realized all by myself that I was just thirty and already well into my nine lives. I knew that I needed to retire, but I just hadn't been able to kick the addiction to that adrenaline rush.

Even when I was on parole and trying like hell to be good, so I could stay out of the joint, I was sticking my nose where it didn't belong.

"Jeffery Burk?" the man in the toy sailer suit asked.

"Yes," I replied.

"The Captain asked that I suggest you take your meals in the cabin." He was a very officious little prick.

"Oh why is that?"

"He is afraid some of the passengers may have seen you come aboard. It would be awkward, if they were to begin asking questions."

"I see."

"Actually it would be better if you remained in your cabin at all times."

"I'll give it some thought. Thanks for passing that along." The smile I gave him didn't seem to comfort him much. Some folks said I had a very forced and unnatural smile. It was forced that first morning for sure.

"Should I tell the Captain that you agree."

"Tell him whatever you like, but I'll give it the consideration it deserves." I know it all sounds too formal for a mill village boy. I picked up the better vocabulary and speech patterns from a white collar con man doing time with me. He taught diction and public speaking to all the medium security, and government's special prisoners. We were all better men for it, I might add. Most of them went back to the board rooms better able to convince the fish to swim along. I, on the other hand, learned how to play word games with the best of them. He also taught those of us from a more primitive background, which fork to use with lobster. He loved being Professor Higgins. It was a good thing he didn't do his time in a real prison. He would have been shanked the first time he put his hand on Bubba's shoulder in that fatherly way.

I really had not wanted to go to the huge dining room for dinner. I mean I had nothing to wear, but they did give me a day, and I had the Swamp Thing credit card for emergencies. I took the run of the ship.

I bought a fancy pair of cotton slacks and a club type blue blazer. I even found a strange looking patch to have sewn onto the pocket. Should anyone ask, I planned to tell them it was Maxwell Country Club's official blazer. That was the inmates name for the federal prison attached to Maxwell Air Force Base. Screw the tourist anyway, who cared what they thought, or knew. I came out of Columbia clean.

"So you have convinced yourself yet again that you have a right to be happy," Gloria stated flatly.

"Don't you ever get tired of being a pain in the ass?"

"Why should I? If it weren't for you, I would be married and have a family."

"Yeah married to a rag head terrorist, with a couple of terrorist brats running around a Madrassa somewhere."

She tried to slap me before she vanished. She couldn't, she was a figment of my sick mind. I laughed, but only after she was gone, just in case.

extraction

I left the small room in the four story building one minute after the Hector exploded. I left with nothing. I mean absolutely nothing but my fake passport and a small wad of US Dollars. The Boss had sent me a message detailing the operation as much as could be anticipated. One of the things anticipated was that a man carrying a case with a rifle inside was likely to be shot on sight. If not, at least subjected to some very severe interrogation. Best not to be seen with one of those cases.

Also a man found with a huge roll of hundred dollar bills after an assassination might create some interest. Lowest on the list, but still on the list, was a gringo in a nice suit trying to get the hell out of Columbia. That also was likely to raise an eyebrow or two. The Boss had decided that it would be best, if I made my way to the coast in a taxi. What the hell, two hundred miles in an old columbian taxi, I couldn't afford the attention created by a newer one, would be a trip to remembered.

"Mr. Jeff, there is most likely going to be a checkpoint on the highway leaving Medellin," the driver said. The driver had been recommended by someone in the American government. I figured that the Boss worked hand in hand with the CIA. It's probably how I got the job in the first place. I guess you might say I had filtered down through the legitimate army programs, to the murky CIA jobs, and finally down to Swamp Thing Ops.

The guys at Swamp Thing liked me because I had once killed a man with a piece of notebook paper, or so they told each other. Actually the easiest way to kill a man with a piece of paper is to wad it up and force it into his throat. Yes I had done that, but he was unconscious at the time. The result of a blow on the head with a very heavy golfing trophy. Still the myth persisted, and I didn't discourage it. Oh yeah, the paper was a plan to dump ricin in the water system of an America town.

"Well we have to stop for it. I think I can get through, if the word hasn't filtered down about the Lawyer." Now you might wonder why a drug lawyer would warrant such a quick search for the shooter. Okay I'll tell you, he was in the running for president of Columbia. With the drug lords backing him, he had a good chance of winning. The current U.S. president might think he could negotiate drugs out of existence, but a lot of guys in the murky waters thought he was the enemy. The drug lawyer I mean, not the president. Okay maybe some of them thought he was did as well. Either way the lawyer was a big fish down there.

"Papers," the soldier demanded. He didn't look a bit friendly, of course they never did. Since the other soldiers were just smoking and hanging out, they didn't appear to be on high alert. The driver handed over his ID card, just before the soldier collected my passport. Things were tense a few minutes while he pretended that he could read my passport. Finally he handed both back to the driver and waved us on. The clerical dickie had worked one more time, I thought.

I realized that I hadn't taken a breath for the whole two minutes that the soldier had held my fake passport. If he began questioning me, the story about being a missionary would never hold up. There just weren't all that many legitimate reasons for a gringo to be in Columbia. Their only major exports were coffee and cocaine. I didn't think I could pass for a coffee expert any better than a Missionary, so the Boss went that way.

"So you whupped them again," Gloria said. I have never met an Arab with a southern accent, so it sounded really strange coming from her.

"For the moment yeah, but the odds are on their side," I whispered under my breath. There was no sense giving the driver an excuse to put my crazy ass out of the cab. "Now you either leave, or be quiet the driver is nervous enough already."

If you were to ask me how far it was from Medellin to the coast, I would have to tell you that it is six hours in a beat up old taxi. It is the only thing I know for sure. I'm not even sure there were crows there, let alone how far they fly.

The driver stopped for, not so cheap gas, once. I bought a hand full of American candy bars at the same time. Candy and American soft drinks were probably the biggest imports, led only by American hundred dollar bills from the drug trade.

"So this is the Boss's idea of a safe house?" Gloria asked after the driver left use outside the run down shack. "My God Jeffie, you can see the sky through the roof."

"Well be glad that it isn't the rainy season," I replied. Since we were alone, I could speak in a normal voice.

"How long will we be staying in this honeymoon suite?" she asked.

"Gloria, I will let you insult me if you like, but I will not sleep with you. That is just too weird."

"Don't flatter yourself. I would never sleep with the man who got me killed."

"I have told you a hundred times, the man with the bomb killed you not me."

"You changed the outcome of the operation and it got me killed. You can't change that damn it." She really was angry. She was also picking up the vocabulary of an agent. She should be it was all she heard these days.

She had heard all the arguments before, so I simply said, "Let's just not talk anymore for a while. The pickup should be in a few hours. They said sometime after dark."

I heard them coming long before they arrived at the door of the shack. Since there would likely be no metal detectors along the route of this extraction, I had concealed a small knife in my boot. I had it out as I stook behind the ruined door of the ruined shack.

"Yankee," the voice said with a passable Spanish accent.

"Clipper," I replied with an American southern accent. His accent might save his life, but mine would get me killed in most parts of the world.

"Get your things and let's get a move on man. We need to meet the big boat in half an hour."

"I have no things, let's go," I answered.

An hour and fifteen minutes later I was being shown around the stateroom on a cruise ship. "If you need anything more, don't hesitate to ring," the young woman said.

"Actually I probably need some new clothes." I said it because the clothes I had worn from Medellin were a mess. Instead of answering she opened the small closet's door. Inside were four hangers with a shirt on each. Also there were two hangers with worn blue jeans, one pair on each hanger. "Well you do think of everything."

"Someone does for sure," she said as she turned to go.

"I don't like that blonde bitch," Gloria said while the cruise ship employee turned down my bed. I didn't answer..

The lawyer's end

"So Jeff how you get here?" The question came in broken english from a very oily looking man.

Yes I was tempted to explain about airplanes and Helicopters but I instead I answered, "Not many places for a sniper to work, if he isn't in the military."

"So you were in the American Army?"

"Yep, that's the one."

"Why you not work for CIA. I thought everyone worked for CIA."

"Oh I worked for them a few times, but they are more a freelance gig. Every time they get a new boss, the fire all the killers. Then after reality sets in they hire new killers. I just like a steadier gig."

"I no understand?"

"Neither did I the first time they sent me packing." I looked at the building across the street where the next victim would appear in about half an hour. "After the second time, I knew that it was not for me." The building was two story with a deck on top. The soon to be deceased drug cartel lawyer would soon be taking his last meal on the roof deck.

"So now you work for the boss full time?"

"Yes, there seem to be a lot of people who need to be switched off." I looked at the watch one more time before I spoke again. "Manny, you need to go on down and bring the car to that side door. I don't want to get there and find you gone."

"Of course, it may be difficult to find a place to wait." The local version of the Mafia henchman replied. The boss would use anyone, I thought.

"Yes, go find us a good one." I was more worried about Gloria, than I was Manny. Glory would be along any minute. I just didn't need the two of them talking at the same time.

He was out the door only a few seconds when she appeared. "So Jeffie, you are going to shoot a drug lord?"

"It seems so."

"Good, it's time He turned his attention to them."

"There are a lot of worse people in the world," I replied

"Obviously he felt like this was important."

"True, ours is not to reason why etcetera. Too bad that removing this cancer won't kill the patient."

"My Goodness Jeff, are you getting poetic?"

"Not a chance, Just a shame he isn't with about a hundred of his clients."

"I expect He has his reasons."

"Yes I'm sure he does." I lifted the British .303 world war 2 sniper rifle off the desk. I attached it to the tripod, which set well back from the window. I certainly didn't want anyone to see me or the flash from the rifle. Adding three more meters to the shot wouldn't make much difference. I could either put it in his eye, or in his nose, he would still be just as dead. The exit damage would compensate for any slight variation in the entry point.

"So how do you feel about this one?" Gloria asked.

"I don't feel anything. He wants him dead and I need the money. Everything else is pretty much immaterial."

"Do you mean that if it were a mother with children, you would do her in front of them."

"Of course not there are always options in setting up the shot."

"So if Hector there comes out with his wife and kids, you will walk away."

"The place is paid for by Hector alright, but his mistress lives there. If he comes out with his mistress, she might well be wearing his brain. I have it on pretty good authority that it doesn't wash out."

"You are a cold bastard," Gloria said.

"I know." If Gloria had been real, she would have noted the sadness in my voice. Being a cold bastard wasn't much of a life.

My right ankle itched like hell. I did a lot lately,when I worked. The problem was that my right leg was missing from the knee down. It seems as though my military career ended with a bang. Land mine in the LZ. How that happened I still didn't know.

Hector came out before I could finish feeling sorry for myself. He wasn't very tall to be so powerful a man. They said he could bribe almost anyone. Those he couldn't bribe he either intimidated or had killed. That, they said, was the Columbian justice system.

The boss decided that they needed one more player in the game down there. I wasn't the player, the boss was. The order for Hector's elimination came with instructions to make as large a statement as possible. A simple head shot would have been easier, but wouldn't make much of a statement.

When he seated himself, I tickled the trigger. The copper jacketed lead slug was so hot I could almost see the smoke as it traveled through the air. The heavy slug hit him between the legs. Blood began to spurt from the artery which the bullet cut. I watched through the scope while the man quickly bled to death. I sat there ready to kill anyone who tried to help him.

Hector Bled out before my eyes. After I was 90% sure he was dead, I put a second round in his head. I didn't get paid to leave him alive so I made damn sure he was dead.

"It's time to go Jeff," Gloria said with urgency in her voice.

I nodded as I turned to the door. I made it to the waiting car. I even managed to survive the drive to the airport. Manny looked terrified as he approached the checkpoint by the airport gate. I could only hope that he was more afraid of the boss than the local drug lords or the cops.

my new friend

"Morning Jeff," the middle eastern looking woman said. I was in the middle of cooking my own breakfast when she appeared from out of nowhere. Gloria did that almost every day lately.

"Come on Gloria give it a rest." I said it trying to ignore her. If I gave her too much thought she would drive me totally insane. Of course, there were those who thought I was insane already. I thought yet again, they may know more than I do.

"You mean give you a rest?" I nodded. "You know I can't do that."

"Can't or won't?" I asked quietly.

"They are the same thing in my case." She actually smiled.

"You know Gloria. I have no idea why you are here. I mean, why me?"

"You know why I picked you."

"Of course I know. I mean why you and why me?"

"Ah I see what you mean now. There are thousands of people being killed everyday. Why am I the one who refused to go peacefully? Maybe it's because it really wasn't my time to go. If you had chosen the right man to kill, then I might still be alive."

"The one I did kill was wired up just like the other one. The one I didn't get to fast enough."

"Yes but who knows how many suicide bombers just lose their nerve. The one you killed might have run away, if you had shot the other one instead."

"You know that he pulled the trigger on that bomb outside the building instead of inside only because I was going to pop him next. There would have been ten times as many deaths, if he had gotten inside."

"Yes but that would have spared me, since I was outside in a car driving by. No matter how you slice it Jeffie, you are responsible for my death."

"And you plan to make me pay by driving me crazy?"

"No, I plan to help you avoid making that kind of mistake again. I know things you can't know. I can go places you can't go."

"But you don't really exist. You can't know more than me, since you are a symptom of my sick mind. It must be that I have finally gone crazy from all the blood and death."

I had finished scrambling the eggs by that time. "Now go away while I eat. You make it very hard to enjoy my food."

Just as quickly as she had appeared, she vanished.