appears to be as clean as the man who shares his name, Charlie Delta. In fact, Charlie Bravo is even mushier than Charlie Delta about how much SASS has helped him “get through it all,” to the point where he’s almost crying he’s so thankful.
Then, Fred McCracken doesn’t come across as fishy in any way, nor do Mike and his wife, Eleanor. They’re two of the best assassins in the world, but they wear matching tracksuits for God’s sake. She uses curlers and wears a muumuu to bed. Mike, when he’s not slipping into some superhero stronghold like an invisible ninja, moonlights as a computer repairman. They’re boring in the real world, but they’re happy. Why would they want to upset that balance? No matter the size of the paycheck, some people just aren’t motivated by the money this job offers.
So, I have to check off both Charlies, the twins Mara and Tara, Fred, Mike, and Eleanor, which leaves Don Weiss, who’s even newer than I am, John Conklin, Charlene, and Dallas. Truth be told, my West Coast people are so clean and lacking in motive that for about three hours, I actually weigh the possibility that being so clean is part of the charade.
Like they were too innocent. Like maybe they were all in on it, and I’m the odd man out.
That’s a dumb idea, though, and I toss it. With so many massive egos—even when they’re bruised and looking for comfort—there’s no chance in hell that they would all come together to work on something of this magnitude just to trap me.
Would they?
Nah, not a chance.
None, nada, zero. I know these people. I know their type. I can read them all like the back of the shampoo bottle while I’m taking a dump.
What I can’t figure out is why any one of them would want to eliminate President Palmer. They simply don’t have a reason to unless there are a couple of extra commas in the paycheck, and I can’t see them giving up a good living to be on the run for the remainder of their days.
Why go that big? They may have super-sized egos, but they’re content to live in the shadows and make bucket-loads of money doing what they do.
Historically, Presidential assassination attempts, both successful and unsuccessful, tend to draw a lot of media attention.
You say the names John Wilkes Booth or Lee Harvey Oswald to anybody over the age of ten, they can tell you who, what, where, and when all these years later.
I can guaran-damn-tee you that none of my cohorts whom I’ve questioned have any desire to be known on an international level by the time 2164 rolls around.
Say any one of their names five to fifteen decades from now, and they’re likely to hope the response would be akin to, “Who the fuck is Fred McCracken?”
Not, “Oh, Fred McCracken! He killed President Palmer in the study with a pipe wrench in 2014.”
At this point, I’ve only been to a handful of SASS meetings, and I can already tell you that I’m not a fan of Dallas, the South Korean woman who suffers from compulsive lying. John Conklin is strange, with a capital “strange” and I’m not sure what his problem is yet. He’s fairly new, too, and hasn’t opened up much.
Charlene—the attractive redhead—was there for the first meeting I attended, and I haven’t seen her since the news broke on Tonight with Don Donner . According to the others, she’s been dealing with all-encompassing paranoia for a while now, and having her identity revealed on national television can’t help. Don Weiss…I don’t know much about him.
They’re the only four remaining, and they’re scattered all over the US. They specifically fly into Portland—as do the Californians—every Tuesday and Thursday evening, just for SASS. I’ll have to visit the rest of them later, because right now, I have like three hours to get some sleep before my flight to the other side of the world.
I reach over, flick off my bedside lamp, and then I ponder what I’m about to do.
I’m about to kill off the most beloved superhero
Then, Fred McCracken doesn’t come across as fishy in any way, nor do Mike and his wife, Eleanor. They’re two of the best assassins in the world, but they wear matching tracksuits for God’s sake. She uses curlers and wears a muumuu to bed. Mike, when he’s not slipping into some superhero stronghold like an invisible ninja, moonlights as a computer repairman. They’re boring in the real world, but they’re happy. Why would they want to upset that balance? No matter the size of the paycheck, some people just aren’t motivated by the money this job offers.
So, I have to check off both Charlies, the twins Mara and Tara, Fred, Mike, and Eleanor, which leaves Don Weiss, who’s even newer than I am, John Conklin, Charlene, and Dallas. Truth be told, my West Coast people are so clean and lacking in motive that for about three hours, I actually weigh the possibility that being so clean is part of the charade.
Like they were too innocent. Like maybe they were all in on it, and I’m the odd man out.
That’s a dumb idea, though, and I toss it. With so many massive egos—even when they’re bruised and looking for comfort—there’s no chance in hell that they would all come together to work on something of this magnitude just to trap me.
Would they?
Nah, not a chance.
None, nada, zero. I know these people. I know their type. I can read them all like the back of the shampoo bottle while I’m taking a dump.
What I can’t figure out is why any one of them would want to eliminate President Palmer. They simply don’t have a reason to unless there are a couple of extra commas in the paycheck, and I can’t see them giving up a good living to be on the run for the remainder of their days.
Why go that big? They may have super-sized egos, but they’re content to live in the shadows and make bucket-loads of money doing what they do.
Historically, Presidential assassination attempts, both successful and unsuccessful, tend to draw a lot of media attention.
You say the names John Wilkes Booth or Lee Harvey Oswald to anybody over the age of ten, they can tell you who, what, where, and when all these years later.
I can guaran-damn-tee you that none of my cohorts whom I’ve questioned have any desire to be known on an international level by the time 2164 rolls around.
Say any one of their names five to fifteen decades from now, and they’re likely to hope the response would be akin to, “Who the fuck is Fred McCracken?”
Not, “Oh, Fred McCracken! He killed President Palmer in the study with a pipe wrench in 2014.”
At this point, I’ve only been to a handful of SASS meetings, and I can already tell you that I’m not a fan of Dallas, the South Korean woman who suffers from compulsive lying. John Conklin is strange, with a capital “strange” and I’m not sure what his problem is yet. He’s fairly new, too, and hasn’t opened up much.
Charlene—the attractive redhead—was there for the first meeting I attended, and I haven’t seen her since the news broke on Tonight with Don Donner . According to the others, she’s been dealing with all-encompassing paranoia for a while now, and having her identity revealed on national television can’t help. Don Weiss…I don’t know much about him.
They’re the only four remaining, and they’re scattered all over the US. They specifically fly into Portland—as do the Californians—every Tuesday and Thursday evening, just for SASS. I’ll have to visit the rest of them later, because right now, I have like three hours to get some sleep before my flight to the other side of the world.
I reach over, flick off my bedside lamp, and then I ponder what I’m about to do.
I’m about to kill off the most beloved superhero
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