When Tim woke, he found Shadow was awake and panting. Tim made a phone call and carried his dog to the truck. The vet took a stool sample, asked for Shadow’s symptoms, and recommended the dog stay overnight. Tim agreed and went home.
The cool spring temperature had picked up that day, and by noon it was a pleasantly warm 70 degrees. Mrs. Lawrence was out and taking advantage of it. Tim noted the gate again and went to survey the damage, but there didn’t seem to be much at all. Tim knelt down to pick up a splinter of the wood only to find it wasn’t wood at all but bits of mushroom.
“Either shut him up or I’ll do it for you!”
Normally, Tim would have thought nothing of the pieces of mushroom; perhaps they’d overgrown and squeezed through the gate. But due to the circumstances with Shadow, he contemplated other reasons. Was Mrs. Lawrence truly capable of such malevolence, to poison someone’s pet? Tim considered the experiences he’d had with the woman the past three years and decided that perhaps she was, that sagging skin of hers nothing more than sheep’s clothing.
He could hear Mrs. Lawrence’s dry-lipped whistle through the fence. Tim sensed contentment in it. He gathered up a piece of the mushroom, headed inside and called the vet. He asked if it were possible that Shadow could have been poisoned and if so, could it have been caused by a mushroom? The vet said he would return his call the next day, hopefully with an answer to his question.
Tim then watched Mrs. Lawrence from his deck. He considered the idea of being paranoid that his elderly neighbor – nagging hag or not – was capable of such an atrocity. Mr. Lawrence was sitting on his patio, reading a book and sipping iced tea. Tim wondered if he wouldn’t have gotten a divorce himself if he’d become what Mr. Lawrence had: half a man, shriveled and weak under the weight of his wife’s abuse, forever stuck in a marriage too old to let go of.
Better to die alone than slowly by the tongue of an old viper.
Tim spent the remainder of the day caring for his own lawn while listening to Mrs. Lawrence’s whistled tunes, at one moment looking over and catching her with a newfound spring in her step. With all day to consider it, Tim became more convinced that the woman had poisoned his dog. Eventually, as the day drew on, the whistled songs gave way to excessive yelling, Mr. Lawrence being the target.
The degrading went on and on, the crackled voice of the woman and the incessant silence from the man. Tim could no longer hold his tongue and so shouted through the fence, “Shut up already!”
Silence.
Tim squatted, his body hidden by the wooden fence where he’d been pulling weeds. Through the cracks in the fence, Tim could see the Lawrences looking in his direction. He swore he saw Mr. Lawrence give a little smile before heading inside, while Mrs. Lawrence stood surveying the fence as though attempting to make out the exact section Tim was using as a shield. Half regretting his outburst, Tim remained still until the woman’s old eyes gave up and her mouth returned to whistling.
First thing the next morning, Tim received a phone call from the vet. After having something to settle his stomach and rehydrate, Shadow was alive and well, though still in need of further rest. The vet told Tim that more than likely Shadow had eaten something poisonous but he couldn’t be sure it was a mushroom, and if it was, it didn’t necessarily mean it was deliberate.
Later that afternoon Tim brought Shadow home and prepared a nest of blankets in the corner of the living room where the dog would get plenty of rest, per the veterinarian’s orders. Shadow kept to himself most of the day and remained quiet and near the house whenever let outside.
Just before dark, Tim called for Shadow to come in after being let out for some fresh air and exercise. Mrs. Lawrence, who sat reading on her patio, looked up from her book and spotted Shadow climbing the stairs of the deck. Tim noted the look of surprise on her face.
She threw her tea at the ground, smashing the glass against the cement. “That beast’ll burn in hell,” she mumbled and headed inside.
For Tim, there was no longer any doubt.
Though the next few days were filled with clear blue skies and Mrs. Lawrence spent the daylight hours in her garden, the whistling and the springy step ceased – the old woman’s brow furrowed heavily, the corners of her mouth pulled downward under the weight of a thousand grudges.
On the third day home, Shadow seemed himself again, running through the yard and taking chase at the occasional squirrel. The day was overcast and sprinkled off and on. Knowing Mrs. Lawrence never found herself outside on such days, Tim allowed his dog free reign of the yard, where Shadow spent most of the day without supervision.
But like earlier in the week, a vicious barking began, alerting Tim, who sprinted for the back door. The sounds were even fiercer than before, and Tim cast doubt as to whether it was Shadow at all. Upon reaching the sliding glass door, Tim could see it was indeed his dog, who had then crashed through the weakened gate and leapt onto the hunched and frail body of Mrs. Lawrence.
Shadow snapped at the old woman’s throat, ripping at it with desperate ferocity, her ancient skin tearing like paper within his jaws. Tim quickly exited the house and took in a quick breath to scream at his dog but instead froze. He stood and watched as his dog mutilated its nemesis: an old, bitter woman.
Movement caught Tim’s attention out the corner of his eye. Mr. Lawrence stood on his patio. He wasn’t running to aid his dying wife. He wasn’t yelling for help or screaming for mercy. He stood watching, sipping his iced tea.
Tim looked back at the grisly scene. Mrs. Lawrence lay twitching, a small baggie of mushrooms clutched in her hand. Her throat was gone. Her bottom dentures had broken loose and lay under her tongue, exposed through the giant hole in her neck. The top dentures fell from her palate and clapped on top of her lengthy tongue as she gurgled and gyrated, the dentures acting as a pair of wind-up chattering teeth, her tongue being bitten between them.
A little late for that now, Mrs. Lawrence. You should have learned to bite that tongue years ago.
Tim once again looked over at Mr. Lawrence, who continued to watch the mutilation. He turned to Tim and raised his glass as though presenting a toast.
***
Tim gazed out across his flourishing garden, the result of months of hard work. Shadow lifted his leg on the old gate and tagged it yellow, adding insult to an injury that was now nothing more than a memory. Tim grinned and eyed the overgrowth in the Lawrence’s yard. He noted the peaceful quiet around him. Quiet enough to read. But first he’d get some more iced tea.
Yes, things happen all in due time. And they most certainly have a way of working themselves out.
A Hitman’s Death by Peter Oliver Wonder
Perched high atop the roof across the street, the shooter waited. Through the magnified scope of the high-powered rifle, he watched his unsuspecting target. He studied him. He tried to understand his movements. He always tried to learn from a kill.
The man behind the rifle made mental notes of the wind speed and direction. The changing gusts of wind would make this a tricky shot, but that’s why he always had backup plans.
The biting cold of the night sank deep into his bones as he waited for the right moment to take his shot. A chill ran down his spine. No one ever said this job would be comfortable, only that it would pay well.
And pay well, it did. He would get a cool million for this hit, and he’d already received half of it in advance.
Despite the less than ideal conditions on the rooftop, he sat there, motionless, as he waited for his target to stop moving around long enough to get a clean shot. Since the shooter first spied him through the scope, the Asian man had been doing training in some form of martial art that wasn’t the least bit familiar to the shooter. He reminded the shooter of Bruce Lee as he moved about the room. He’d never been given the name of his target, so he assigned him the name Bruce until the job was done and thoughts of him could leave his mind entirely.
The target had been going on with his training for over an hour already,
and the shooter had been unable to draw a steady bead on him long enough to make a precise shot.
Keep on dancing, if it makes you happy, Bruce. It’s the last thing you’ll ever get to do, the shooter thought.
As the target jumped, twirled, and rolled around the small hotel room, the shooter observed his tattoos. Nearly his entire visible frame was covered in flames in all colors of the rainbow, swirling around his shirtless torso, and his face was covered in Chinese characters. The man behind the rifle couldn’t read or speak Chinese, but was able to tell the difference between Chinese and Japanese characters. He had, after all, traveled extensively thanks to his profession.
After nearly two hours of ‘Bruce Lee’ dancing around his room, he finally stopped and took a seat on the bed. Facing the window, he crossed his legs, placed his elbows on the inside of his thighs, and let his hands drop to the bed. He closed his eyes and began to meditate.
The wind gusted intensely just as the shooter began the controlled squeeze of his trigger, so he decided to let up. The wind could knock the barrel off course, and even at this short distance, the gusts of wind were great enough to change the course of the round once it was loose. There was no need to rush this job. For the pay he was getting, he would sit his ass on a roof in North Korea and freeze to death waiting to take the shot.
The shooter pulled his left hand from the rifle, balled it up into a fist, and blew some warm air into it. Never once did he pull his finger from the trigger, nor his eye from the scope.
After several minutes passed, the gusting winds slowly died off and the target remained as motionless as a corpse – as though he had been replaced with a dummy. Once satisfied with the condition of the wind, the shooter took in a deep breath, slowly let it out, and, once his lungs were nearly empty of air, repeated his steady squeeze of the trigger.
“Goodbye, motherfucker,” he said to the dead man in the crosshairs.
There was nearly no recoil, and the muffled gunshot was a surprise to the shooter, as it always was. But the scene he saw unfold before him was even more of a surprise than the crack of the shot.
The target – with his eyes closed and entirely motionless on the bed – dodged the fucking bullet. The wind had subsided to a point where it would have had no effect on the trajectory of the round, and he was positive the barrel had remained on target throughout the shot. There was no way the target could have heard the shot, and there was obviously no way he had seen the shooter. What the fuck is this?
Again, he squeezed the trigger, but as the second round flew through the window, the target maneuvered backward, kicked his legs into the air to spin himself around, and fell to the floor on the other side of the bed. As soon as he landed, a thick, black smoke began to rise up and fill the room.
The motherfucker was using some sort of a smoke screen.
Such setbacks as missing your target on the first shot were an extreme annoyance, but it wasn’t the end of the world. That was why there was always a contingency plan.
Taking the rifle with him, the shooter ran toward the elevator shaft. Earlier in the day, he had sabotaged the gears and left the car a useless box on the ground floor, which was home to the parking garage. While on the move, he wrapped the rifle sling over his shoulder, leaving the weapon to freely hang from his back.
With gloved hands, he grabbed onto the hand brakes attached to the elevator cable. They were a specialty item the shooter brought with him on all jobs that were to be executed from high atop a building. Dangling from the brake handles was a rope attached to a two-by-four which his feet could rest on as he fell in order to prevent them from scraping against the thick cable and opening up a nasty gash.
His descent was rapid but controlled. He applied steady pressure to the brakes so as not to gain too much speed. If that were to happen it would greatly increase the risk of not being able to come to a full stop before reaching the roof of the elevator, which would likely leave him as nothing more than a puddle of pink goo.
But that wouldn’t happen. He was skilled and prepared for nearly any situation. That’s why he’d been hired. That’s why he could charge the ridiculous sums of money he did. That’s why he’d been chosen for this very special job.
He came to a comfortable landing on the elevator car in under thirty seconds and wasted no time as he made his way through the ceiling hatch and into the car. He had already propped open the door and stuck some caution tape across the outside after he had sabotaged the gears.
Breaking through the tape, he made his way to and entered his Audi, which was parked in a handicapped spot next to the elevator. In a single, fluid motion, he removed the weapon from his back and placed it on the passenger side floor. He flipped up the passenger seat to reveal several other weapons, including a high-caliber pistol, a submachine gun, and a collapsible sword.
He withdrew the SMG from its compartment and pulled out of the parking space. The rear of the vehicle went sliding behind him as the tires spun, frictionless, beneath him and he was able to avoid contact with any other vehicle. The powerful car picked up speed in the small garage, and in no time he burst through the barrier gate, sending wood splinters flying through the air. The attendant in the booth didn’t even have time to react before the car disappeared into the night.
Narrowly squeezing into rapidly moving traffic, he saw the traffic light was about to turn red. He stomped the gas pedal to the floor and careened through, making a left-hand turn toward the target’s hotel. He paid no mind to the horns that sounded at him out of annoyance.
The Audi slid sideways into an open spot in front of the mark’s hotel mere moments after leaving the shooting position; the shooter had strategically placed traffic cones in this particular spot earlier in the day. His jaw dropped once he saw that the tattooed man was already closing the door of his Subaru behind himself, the engine started. The tires of the silver car spat smoke up into the night sky behind it as it broke out into traffic, as though the move had been choreographed weeks in advance.
The shooter skipped the stage where he was supposed to be frustrated and went straight to being pissed off. How did that little asshole manage to get outside and into the car so fast?
There was no time for such thoughts so he brushed them away. He pulled his Audi into traffic, trading paint with a cab. There was no way the mark would be able to get away, no matter what the consequences were. Collateral damage meant nothing when a half million dollars – and his reputation – were on the line.
He saw the target’s Subaru, which was only a few vehicles ahead of his own. With quick thinking and extreme determination, the shooter made his way onto the sidewalk in order to make up ground.
At this time of night, there were only a few people on the sidewalk, and he knew better than to honk to get them out of his way. Any extra noise would draw more attention – possibly even from the police – and would put undue strain on his job, which had already become a clusterfuck. One pedestrian wasn’t able to react to the invasive vehicle in time. He bounced off to the right corner of the hood and was slammed against the building behind them. The shooter paid no mind to the inconsequential pedestrian as his one-track mind remained focused on the job at hand.
The target glanced over his shoulder in order to gain a visual on the pursuer. Not one to be outdone, he changed lanes, nearly striking the vehicle next to him, and made a tight left-hand turn.
It would take more than some sneaky maneuvering to get rid of the hitman. He bulldozed through traffic, colliding with no fewer than three other vehicles, and successfully made the turn. He was now directly behind the silver Subaru. The Audi continued to pick up speed until it rammed into the back of the target’s car.
The Asian man’s head struck the back of the seat before bouncing off and slamming his face into the steering wheel. A thin line of blood trickled from his left nostril. He pulled a pistol from his center console and blasted a few rounds through his rear windshield. The rounds went sailing past the pursuer’s head and exite
d through the rear windshield of the Audi.
The rounds didn’t even cause the driver to flinch. He had been shot at plenty of times and knew it took either a whole lot of skill or an inordinate amount of luck to successfully hit the driver of the vehicle behind you.
But those shots did fill the hitman with newfound rage. He pulled out the high-caliber pistol and fired a few rounds through his own windshield. Accuracy was not an issue for him, as he was not aiming to hit his target at this point. If he had, it would have been good news, but his intent was to damage the engine and bring the vehicle to a halt.
The silver vehicle began to swerve recklessly after two rounds sailed into it. The man was clearly anticipating more rounds to follow in the coming seconds. As the vehicle banged into two other cars, a thick, gray smoke began to billow up from the engine compartment.
One of the engine belts gave off a high-pitched whine, and the hitman knew that meant the target would soon have to ditch the dying car. Despite the fact that the man he was chasing was much smaller – and likely faster – this was precisely what he’d wanted. The little man could run all night and day, and he could almost certainly outrun the hitman, but he couldn’t outrun a bullet.
And then he remembered that Bruce Lee had been able to dodge a bullet just a few short moments ago.
He placed the pistol back into its compartment in the passenger seat and picked up the SMG. The tools of his craft were always locked, loaded, and ready to fire; safety was child’s play at this point in the game.
The lead vehicle slowed and sputtered as it crossed through lanes of oncoming traffic. Once the target felt the vehicle’s tires strike the curb, he bailed out from the door. His feet struck the asphalt and, almost instantly, he was close to top speed. Like a cheetah, Bruce took off on foot down an alley.
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