dry, rubbery eyes in the boy’s decapitated head. The child’s curiosity explored further as he checked out the neck to see what was inside. Then, with his curiosity sated, he placed the head back on the sand and parked a matchbox-size red Ferrari in the deceased boy’s open mouth.
The three infants were discovered with their once-angelic hair now matted with blood, and their once-sweet faces the epitome of evil infants incarnate. It was a sandpit from hell, and its image burnt into the hearts and minds of the community, forever changing their lives.
For the kindergarten teacher, the images would haunt her for the rest of her days, which turned out to be far less time than anyone could have guessed. With her sanity broken, this last Christmas Eve she took a drunken flying leap from her roof and was cut in half by the white picket fence that bordered her small garden. The surrounding snow was drenched in blood, creating a strawberry slushie of gigantic proportions, while the steam from her innards drifted above her corpse like an escaping spirit.
The war on terror in the USA is like an iron fist crushing all that it slams into. When it hits the aggressor, nothing is left to chance, and everything within its field of destruction is removed from existence. In many ways the war on terror on home soil is employed in a similar fashion as the shock and awe tactics employed by the US armed forces overseas. With the CIA’s hands effectively tied from being able to remove homeland threats, other means of achieving the necessary ends were adopted. The cell led by this maniac had to be eliminated, but in a way that would not be destructive to our way of life, and in a way that would act to reinforce society while also sending a message to the religious fanatics that this woman associated with. The iron fist against terror was not the shock and awe tool that my new employer wanted to use. Instead, they had approached me and requested that I use methods that would be hard for these religious extremists to forget. I guess they wanted to use me as a precision instrument—a scalpel, if you will . . . I got the point, and so would she.
The IKSM was responsible for the boy’s death and would be brought to justice, but not in a way anyone could predict or even have imagined. The CIA hired me to “take care of them,” with one proviso. My work should result in the most visually impacting results I could imagine. Now, I can imagine an awful lot, so there is a chance that perhaps I went a little too far, and perhaps I took the instructions a little too literally. Nevertheless, I completed the assignment and started by decapitating the organization.
And so it was that a few weeks later I found myself visiting the woman—let’s call her Ms. X for the time being. It was a Friday night, and it was one of the few nights that she didn’t have any guests or visitors. This worked in my favor, and I began planning my night’s entertainment. The kill would be a lengthy endeavor, for my overactive imagination had come up with something a little unique this time, and the earlier I started in the evening, the better.
Not unattractive, she was of average looks and would, based on her looks alone, have made an average wife for an average partner, though in many ways I guess she made the perfect undercover agent type. That is, she was average in every way, from her average height to her average build, her average 34C breasts, so that one could be forgiven for not noticing her at all. She could pass you in the street, and when questioned a little later you would deny her existence completely.
My instructions had been clear. She must be taken out, along with the remaining IKSM cell members. She must be the first to be eliminated, and the hit must appear to be the work of a serial killer, or at the very least a total maniac. That part would be easy, and besides, I ask you, how often does someone offer to employ you to do the things you do best? This
The three infants were discovered with their once-angelic hair now matted with blood, and their once-sweet faces the epitome of evil infants incarnate. It was a sandpit from hell, and its image burnt into the hearts and minds of the community, forever changing their lives.
For the kindergarten teacher, the images would haunt her for the rest of her days, which turned out to be far less time than anyone could have guessed. With her sanity broken, this last Christmas Eve she took a drunken flying leap from her roof and was cut in half by the white picket fence that bordered her small garden. The surrounding snow was drenched in blood, creating a strawberry slushie of gigantic proportions, while the steam from her innards drifted above her corpse like an escaping spirit.
The war on terror in the USA is like an iron fist crushing all that it slams into. When it hits the aggressor, nothing is left to chance, and everything within its field of destruction is removed from existence. In many ways the war on terror on home soil is employed in a similar fashion as the shock and awe tactics employed by the US armed forces overseas. With the CIA’s hands effectively tied from being able to remove homeland threats, other means of achieving the necessary ends were adopted. The cell led by this maniac had to be eliminated, but in a way that would not be destructive to our way of life, and in a way that would act to reinforce society while also sending a message to the religious fanatics that this woman associated with. The iron fist against terror was not the shock and awe tool that my new employer wanted to use. Instead, they had approached me and requested that I use methods that would be hard for these religious extremists to forget. I guess they wanted to use me as a precision instrument—a scalpel, if you will . . . I got the point, and so would she.
The IKSM was responsible for the boy’s death and would be brought to justice, but not in a way anyone could predict or even have imagined. The CIA hired me to “take care of them,” with one proviso. My work should result in the most visually impacting results I could imagine. Now, I can imagine an awful lot, so there is a chance that perhaps I went a little too far, and perhaps I took the instructions a little too literally. Nevertheless, I completed the assignment and started by decapitating the organization.
And so it was that a few weeks later I found myself visiting the woman—let’s call her Ms. X for the time being. It was a Friday night, and it was one of the few nights that she didn’t have any guests or visitors. This worked in my favor, and I began planning my night’s entertainment. The kill would be a lengthy endeavor, for my overactive imagination had come up with something a little unique this time, and the earlier I started in the evening, the better.
Not unattractive, she was of average looks and would, based on her looks alone, have made an average wife for an average partner, though in many ways I guess she made the perfect undercover agent type. That is, she was average in every way, from her average height to her average build, her average 34C breasts, so that one could be forgiven for not noticing her at all. She could pass you in the street, and when questioned a little later you would deny her existence completely.
My instructions had been clear. She must be taken out, along with the remaining IKSM cell members. She must be the first to be eliminated, and the hit must appear to be the work of a serial killer, or at the very least a total maniac. That part would be easy, and besides, I ask you, how often does someone offer to employ you to do the things you do best? This
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