Sonny's Friendly Asassination Service - Chapter 1

Wrote this back in February of 07. I want to do a book called Sonny's Friendly Asassination Service, which is about...a friendly asassination service. I never wrote anymore, but I made up all the members of the company, and I'd love to continue it some day.

01 - Jack

So I walk into the office, and I'm feeling pretty good. There are joys that come from advancement in the corporate world that cannot be replicated. The fact that you're exceptional enough to rise above several floors of dedicated employees instills in one a confidence that I would put against anything a drug makes you feel. You're not getting your high from an external substance; it is created purely from the knowledge that you are, in whatever capacity, superior to everyone else doing your job. The higher salary and company benefits are something else, that's not of any interest to me nor to the story.

So I'm walking into his office, and I can see myself in the reflection of the marble floor. I wonder, as I'm walking, how much money is spent on keeping that marble floor so clean. You could probably turn a backwater village into a sprawling metropolis with that kind of cash, and here it is being invested into keeping this thing shiny. But I'm digressing again. The office is huge, and extravagant, and my suit is tasteful but a little out of place. The boss is waiting for me, his chair turned around so he can see out his giant window and look over the city. As I place the stuffed file onto his desk, I once again entertain an idle thought that the high one feels from corporate advancement must be insignificant to someone like him. He sits there, looking over the city like he owns the thing. And, in a way, he does.

"Six months," he says to me, without turning around.
"Six months you've been here, and you've pushed this product to retail like it was second nature. I've been paying people for years to make this damn thing, and you waltz in here and put everyone that works here to shame."
"Just doin' my job, sir. Its what I love."
He turns around now, and flips through the folder in front of him. It's more a symbolic gesture, than anything. He has people to read things for him.
"I don't even know what to do with you. Hell, I don't think there's anything that would fit. You've probably saved me millions of dollars that I would have been wasting on trying to push this thing. I'm really speechless."
If I could interject, my feeling at this point was practically orgasmic. He wasn't exaggerating. I'd entered this company as a nobody and had managed to save its premier product from the brink of extinction in half a year. Being the best at what I do is what I live for. I loosened my tie a bit, and flashed my biggest smile.

"Sir, you really don't need to do anything. My satisfaction and your acknowledgment are really enough. But that's actually not why I'm up here."
"Hmm? I called you up here to commend you," he says, cocking his head a little.
I smile. "Well, yes, this is true, but I actually had business with you. My name, as you already know, is Jack, and I'm going to be your assassin today."
He gives me the look. You know the look. We've all gotten it. He hears the words but nothing registers; I might as well have barked at him.
"What did you say?"
"My name is Jack, and I'm going to be assassinating you. Please, open up to the end of the folder."
He begins to draw his hands back, but I place mine gently on top of them.
"Don't bother. If there was any chance of security helping you, I wouldn't be doing it this way. And besides, I could be gone and you could be dead before anyone even got your signal. Please, open the folder," I said, opening up my jacket to reveal the gun holster. This usually either illicit panic or compliance, so of course its a gamble. Luckily, the boss goes for the latter.

At the end of the folder, he finds my brochure. He unfolds it and reads it, although not much registers through the shaking. I pick it up for him, and glance at it.
"I understand this is difficult for you. Feel free to have a drink, to calm your nerves. As I said, my name is Jack. Its not my real name, just a professional one. I've been hired by Mr. Anderson to kill you. Now, me? I think its a little boorish. I mean, if you're going to sabotage a company, there's easier ways to do it. Not that your death itself is going to destroy your company; for sure, your leadership has taken it this far, but, if I may be so rude as to infer, there's some seriously bad blood between you guys."
A couple shots of scotch had made him more aware, if not more calm. Knowing that the owner of his rival company was having him killed certainly made him more grounded. Probably embarrassed, too. Its not a particularly nice way to go. There's no clearer sign of loss.

"As I was saying, the point is obviously to ruin your product, coupled with the resolution of whatever personal issues you two may have. To that end, I was hired to enter your company and sabotage you. I had to learn everything there is to know about computer programming in two weeks; I don't mean to brag, but given what you said earlier, I just wanted you to know just how good I am. I took it as a challenge; see how fast I could outprogram people who'd been doing this since their fingers could hit keys. For what its worth, the product is completely functional. There's a small line of code in there that will ensure that it crashes; no one could find it, so you don't have to worry about my efforts going to waste."

He's looking at me now like he thinks I'm insane, but I ignore it and continue.
"So your product is going to launch and then flop. I imagine that your company will go under not long after. You, of course, will not be around to see it. If I may once more interject, I suggested that this would be enough but Mr. Anderson wouldn't budge. I don't know what you did to the guy, but he really, really hates you."
"It figures. Anderson always was a son of a bitch."
"Yes, well. Mr. Anderson has generously purchased you the deluxe package. I am going to kill you in whatever way you find most comfortable. I have a variety of weapons and other implements with me, and I can make it as painful or painless as you want. I should mention that this particular package is exceedingly expensive.

"So I'm supposed to be impressed that Anderson would spend so much to have me killed?"
"Well, the way I see it, and not knowing either of you I may be perfectly wrong, the fact that he's willing to spend much, much more than he would have for me to just come in here and shoot you says that he respects you, and your rivalry, and wishes you to go out with some sort of dignity."
"You call this dignity?" he spits, scowling.

"There are some really horrible ways to die. Gruesome, slow, painful. If I get to have a choice of how I'm going to die, I will consider myself extremely lucky."
He looks at me like he's annoyed, but I brush it off and push the brochure closer to him. He looks through it, paying more attention to his options now. He does this for about twenty minutes, during which I inspect the priceless artifacts he's had the office decorated with. There's too much style, too much uniformity to make me think he actually chose any of it. I go ahead and ask him.

"No, of course not. You know how much I make. I haven't done a damn thing for myself in years. And now I suddenly have to decide how I'm going to die. I can't believe this."
I looked at my watch. It was getting late.
"Listen, I understand the position you're in, but we really have to get going."
His eyes drift up and meet mine, and he stares me down like he's trying to shoot holes in my head, and for all I know that's what he's trying to do.

He points. I look it over for a second, then nod. I loosen my tie again, and take it off, draping it over the chair.



Mr. Anderson's office isn't as extravagant, but it is by no means the kind of place anyone who's not ridiculously powerful would spend their time. Now, Mr. Anderson himself, and I know I've said this before but it always boggles my mind, is sitting there looking like he just had me go get him coffee; he just had a guy who used to be his friend killed and he couldn't care less.
"Is it done?"
"Everything's in order, sir."
"How'd he take it?"
"Remarkably well. There's usually a lot more crying and begging. He didn't seem too surprised."
"Yeah, well, if there's one thing I can say for the guy, he's got balls. There's not a lot that can get him down."
"I totally agree. He definitely knows how to run a business as competitive as this one."
"Knew. He knew how to run a business. All he's doing now is cursing me down in Hell."
And then I draw my gun on him. His eyes go wide, and his hands go up, shaking a little.

"What the hell are you doing?!"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Anderson, but I'm afraid the terms have changed. I'm going to be your assassin today."
"How the hell did this happen?! We had a damn deal!"
"I'm afraid I was made a better offer."
"What is he giving you?! I'll double it!"
"Sorry, but I don't do this sort of thing often, and never twice."
He goes to say something else, but its nearing 4AM and I have to get going. As per the instructions of my new client, who is understandably bitter, I leave him in his chair, blood trickling from his head and dripping onto the pristine white floor.