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The Target
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The Target |
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ShadowRider Senior Member
since 2001-07-14
Posts 1038USA 
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It was in his second lifetime that the truth about his origin became apparent, and not a parent. The first lifetime stretched until his 32nd year. Hammond walked down the cracked and stained concrete, acutely aware of snap-click of the metal heel savers on his shoes. Looking dapper in his dark, sleek suit, the contrast of khaki versus Brooks Brothers stood out in comparison as he entered the office building door alongside the casual dress of government office workers. He fingered the plastic handle in his pocket for reassurance before stepping thru the metal detector. Immediately heading for the Men's room, he fished in his upper inside breast pocket until he found the hard plastic barrel and screwed it into the handle of the toy gun. He reached into the other pocket for the compression spring and trigger that snapped neatly into the handle in two pieces, neither of which if discovered would have been thought to be a firearm. The barrel was purposely made to look like a pen cartridge, while the handle was a innocuous curved 'C' that only resembled a gun when fully combined with the other 3 pieces. The fifth piece, an exploding plastic bullet resistant to heat and friction, was removed from the heel compartment of his shoe and inserted into the handgun. Upon impact, it would instantly have the same effect that a hollowpoint round would have at a medium distance. Senator Richardson and Senator Bartlett stood, shoulder-to-shoulder while discussing who and when the favors of government should be passed to their benefactors. The assassin saw everything; missed nothing. Any movement out of either corner of his eye was seen without turning his head: a great skill obtained in Cambodia in 1966, when sensing the enemy was much more valuable than actually seeing them. Making eye contact was a sure death signal and much too late to do something about saving a soldier's own life. He spent days rooting for his life in the rat tunnels of Southeast Asia, finely tuning his senses to glean even the slightest motion that would threaten his life. He was a single-man search-and-destroy mission; immune to the camaraderie of the Marines, exempt from the gunny sergeant's stern gaze. In his vigilante pursuit of the Viet Cong, he was known as Blood Shoe. Every drop that splattered it from his kills was never cleaned, giving his boot an unnatural dark brown bias. He learned to enjoy the pursuit and was actually disheartened when finally sent home after two tours. He became pinned to the real world of business, the constraint of laws and the nativity of his fellow citizens. None of these prim bastards had any notion of what a real man's challenge was like, and yet, they all gave him the dose of hanging eyes when he returned home, like he himself was the criminal. It was time to let them know, one by one, what they had created over there. The two senators had voted against entitlements for the returning veterans while speaking in grandiose terms of Mai Lai injustices that the Americans perpetrated upon the hapless villagers. Hammond let some loose drool hang carelessly from his mouth as the senators almost brushed his shoulder as they passed him. The thin line turned into a spit insult, quietly spat into their departing invisible tracks while the audience fawned over the senator's potential power. The benefit would bring some money on the plates of roast beef to their party. Richardson had an army base that needed spruced, and Bartlett had a computer giant that would bring 15,000 new jobs to his constituency. The PAC's was spent even before it was proffered. Hammond couldn't ignore the "PEACE NOW!" button on Bartlett's stubby chest any more than he could ignore the eagle that pecked at his lacking sense of right. He would fire the first round into the other uncovered breast of the senator, and he would feel no remorse. Richardson was just another thinly disguised do-gooder whose position changed as often as an all-day bareback horseride. He waited until the houselights dimmed, and the podium was illuminated by a phosphorus hot glow. When the first toast was made, the 350 glasses tinkling together completely drowned out the muffled snap of the homemade pistol. The double thud sounded like a drum skin breaking. Then, the screaming began. ~ ~ ~ Bret Menno pulled himself up onto one arm, the dots swimming before his bloodshot eyes. His chest felt like a jackhammer had had its way with him for several minutes. Somehow, Hammond had sensed he was there, yet still had the verve to aim toward the Senator while Menno had circled quietly behind the assassin. Menno reached slowly into his suitbreast pocket, pulling out the silver badge his father had bequeathed to him when righteous names still were cast in metal, instead of plastic lamination. Around the three letters, FBI, was some still smoking plastic, trying desperately to pull off as much as the suit as it could. In a way, he was almost grateful Hammond had turned around. He had never shot a man in the back and he wasn't about to break that streak now. His phoenix legs resurrected him to his feet, and Menno blinked enough pain away for a moment to focus on the podium. The two senators were being helped to their feet by a couple of local gendarmes. They almost looked scared for the scantiest of moments. Then their mouths started moving: in the wrong direction. Guns! the root of all evils! it was a photo-opportunity moment, and they used it with Shakespearean eloquence to make their point on gun control legislation. Menno walked, stridently over to Bartlett, allowing an almost imperceptible turning of his head, left to right before he ripped the "PEACE NOW!" button right off Bartlett's chest. The FBI agent set his jaw, fisting the button and walked with singular purpose over to Hammond's inert frame. It landed square in the middle of Hammond's back with a satisfying slap. |
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Krissy Senior Member
since 2002-02-22
Posts 556kent England |
Jeff my dear friend I don’t know how you do but whenever you write I’m carried away on your words. This is really fine writing and YOU are an exceptional excellent writer of superb talent. This story gripped me I wanted to find out what happened and how. This of course is the mark of an exceptional writer you carry the reader on a wave of your words rather like a surfer carried along in a perfect curl. Well written Jeff very very well written, please do some more   Love and warm stuff As always Krissy And while thy willing soul transpiers |
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ShadowRider Senior Member
since 2001-07-14
Posts 1038USA |
Awww KrissyGal, you are ultra sweet and i never know how to repay your kindness. Long long before i attempted my humility at writing poetry, i was a short story writer. I've been writing since i was in 2nd grade, mostly O'Henry type stories with a switch ending, or moral one. Occasionally i would like to post one or two a month and if you would be so kind to let me know if its a thumbs-up or downer, please let me know, OK? Dulcy and Batman send their love to your wonderful family of talent, and would love to see your stories here, too, if you feel up to a mini-challenge. Always your bud Jeff and thank you Krissy.....you are a dear heart. |
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