Short story I wrote for one of my several writing classes. I had to include: A magician, a serial killer and an evil goverment. Enjoy . . . if you can:
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Marcus had his front cover down to perfection. By daytime he posed as a mystic, reclusive magician who made what little money he had off of palm readings. In reality, he was a well-trained assassin.
Some called people like Marcus serial killers, but Marcus always preferred to be known as an assassin. After all, he was far more sophisticated than the average serial killer that was in the news from time to time.
Marcus had spent years honing his skill into an art. If murder wasn’t illegal, he could have made a whole lot of money writing how-to books on it.
Like most serial killers, Marcus’s problems had originally stemmed in his childhood. Kidnapping sometimes did that to you.
Marcus knew all about living on the rough side of life, and he knew about living on the streets.
He knew how to shoot a man between the eyes from across an alley before he was ten. He learned about the more creative ways of killing by the time he was a teenager.
Marcus pulled a cigarette from out of a pack and lit it. He leaned back in his chair, sticking his feet up onto his table. A flickering electric sign outside of his store, flashed on and off:
Marcus the Magician
Palm-reading and more
Prices negotiable
He let out a wry grin. The sign not only symbolized his job but also helped keep nosy people away. Most people didn’t bother snooping on someone who claimed to be a magician and Marcus had built up quite a reputation for his business.
The ability to read people was helpful for both killing targets and scamming costumers. He picked up his pile of cash for this week. A few thousand dollars, that was barely enough to get a new gun, he thought sullenly. Thank goodness for government funds.
A sharp buzzing noise interrupted his thoughts, Marcus glanced down at his cell phone, to see the name “Jack” flashing on the screen cover.
Picking it up, he didn’t bother to say anything into the machine, Jack would know he was listening,
“Marcus,” came the clipped military tone from the other end, “You’ll be receiving a stream of possible candidates any minute.”
Marcus flipped the phone shut, and turned on his computer. Despite what many thought, your email was actually very safe.
Well, if you had the U.S. government paying to keep it secure for you.
With dexterity that could make a secretary jealous, Marcus signed into his email account and clicked on his one unread message.
Scanning down the list through names, Marcus chose which one he would kill tonight.
The feeling of being in complete control of these people’s fates sent a rush of adrenaline through his system. He decided he would pick from one of the three names in the middle of the list:
Maria Saranaha
John Smith
Oz Marinia
Marcus almost laughed, John Smith? That had to be the most overused false name in the United States. Marcus clicked on that name, a file popped up with information on the man as well as a notice which read, “Congratulations on picking your new target. The following information should help you as you complete your task”.
This was all ordinary and mundane in Marcus’s opinion, he skimmed over the rest of the information, memorizing it quickly to avoid any setbacks in the future.
Satisfied, he logged off of his computer account – Good luck hacking a 25 character random letter and number password, he thought – and then walked across the room.
He opened up a large desk to reveal several different kinds of guns, recalling John Smith’s height, weight and fitness level, he picked the gun that would give him the most accurate shot.
He left the building surprisingly quick, one of the advantages to killing so many people; you knew how much preliminary knowledge you needed and this, John Smith, wouldn’t need much.
Closing the door to his business, he flipped the “Open” sign over so that it now said “Closed”. Digging into his pocket, he removed his car keys and unlocked his ride. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he turned the key in the ignition of his large, black SUV. He had chosen that type of car simply for the irony of it.
Gunning the engine, he sped across town towards where John Smith supposedly lived. The man’s habits indicated that he stayed home and watched Lost on Thursday nights.
Pulling up the John Smith’s street, Marcus slowed his car down and turned off the lights. Then he parked, pulling out his gun and cocking it.
Smith’s house had many potential entrances; Marcus had chosen a basement window that was 15 feet away from the television set. Close enough to make the man an easy target, but far enough away that he wouldn’t be noticed as soon as he entered.
Marcus approached the house carefully and silently opened the window. From this distance he could already see the television baring commercials and the body of a man, slumped against the coach.
Marcus pulled the trigger on his rifle, sending a spray of metal towards the unsuspecting man. The figure instantly collapsed onto the floor, the body convulsing each time a bullet entered.
Satisfied, Marcus walked over to the body to examine it. Three feet away, he noticed something was very wrong. He kicked at the body and felt it: stuffing.
Someone had put a dummy here for him. Realizing what this meant, Marcus began to turn but felt the cold metal of a gunpoint pressed against the back of his head.
He turned ever so slightly so he could view who had him at gunpoint, “Jack?” he asked unbelievingly.
“We knew ‘John Smith’ would have you over here first,” replied the man, his tone as toneless and formatted as it had sounded over the phone, “You’ve outlived your purpose Marcus, and the government doesn’t need you anymore,”
Marcus became angry, “Who are you to decide whether I live or die?”
“It’s what you do everyday Marcus,” said Jack, “Who are you to decide? Who are you to play God?” he asked.
Marcus never got a chance to reply.
