Hunched over a keyboard in the depths of the basement, a nondescript figure sits, greenish screen-light glowing on her face, reading reports of an underworld that is fascinating and terrifying in equal measures. Ever since she arrived in the city of fabled spires she has followed the activities of the guild, lurking in the background without comment. Uncertain whether she might have the neccessary imagination or skills (or time) to be an assassin, she wonders whether there are any times when assassins get together to reminisce over old kills and whether assassins ever take apprentices? She might have the wherewithal to be an accomplice, at least. But how does one gain ones first entry into the dark and dangerous culture of alleyways, rooftops and hooded cloaks? Chewing on a nail, the Nobody glances furtively around, before packing up her computer and slipping upstairs to merge faceless into the crowds.
I, PC Philosopher, would like to report that I have successfully removed one wanted criminal from the streets. One wanted criminal who believed mistakenly, that he had better things to do than kill people. Seeing the target in lunch, an informant pointed him out to me. Carrying only my cor-key knife to hand, I ran up to him and stabbed him in the back. Repeatedly. Carlos Ludlow-Palofox will think twice before being incompetent again...
It was clear that the integrity of my disguise as an english student had not been breached. Making all efforts to conform to this alter-ego, I lay in wait in the Queens' bar, a volume of ben okri's poetry in one hand, a prawn and avocado ciabatta in the other. While discussing the relative merits of different varieties of string with another 'cellist, I spotted a potential target. This incompetent assassin wandered in, apparently oblivious to the fact that his nemesis was about to pounce. As he played pool, I used my g-string as a garotte, thus snapping the fragile bones in his neck, and leaving me missing a string, and unable to relax after the kill by playing the haunting melodies of Bach's fourth 'cello suite.
A muddled presence was instigated in the bar. A herd of system equities was seen undulating towards the prime position - the male opportunities were available, but alas I knew the days of currying were long gone. Some bejeweled shaking made entrance to the field of thoughts and clarity, but disparity transcended and a muddling was disposed of by way of multifunctionary fur-lined sharp edges.
On finding Richard Wheaters ground floor room locked I made my way round
to the other side of the building to see if my creaking had disturbed him
from his typing.
On the second pass it was obvious he was engrossed and thus set up for an
indiscretion. So i returned knocked he said 'come in' I tried again
without revealing my unfamilialar voice and he came and openend the
door... BANG the slug tore straight into his heart as he tried to recoil
from my sinister threat.
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