An assasins story

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It was a Sunday, a cold Sunday, something contradistinctive to the usual blooming heat of Australia. As he anxiously sat high up on a rooftop, camouflaged amongst the rough bricks, red rooftop tiles and the gathered crusty orange leaves that had fallen of the naked oak tree that rooted from the derelict fog filled street below, his eyes were focused deeply on one thing, the accommodation across the road, the Prime Minister’s office, waiting for him to finish, what seemed like an evening’s session of romance accompanied by his unknown guest. He seemed tired, for his face was down and both his red eyes carried a bag of sleep beneath them, the constant yawning added to this, but he knew, that waiting was a part of the job. As he watched a stray dog run across the street below, he suddenly began to reminisce his childhood, images of hunting with his father ignited within his memory. A deer minding his own business, not knowing that he was yards away from a twin barrelled shotgun, camouflaged within the colossal bushes. Then a sudden outburst of bullets that echoed like the howl of a white fox in the arctic desert, throughout the silent forest. Moving towards the deer, the bullet had pierced in through the skull, the deep red blood trickling across the brown earth, like a gentle stream.

He snapped back to reality with the sudden crash of thunder, a quick flash of light, followed by a deep growl. Thick rain fired down like bullets ejecting from an assault rifle, from the dark sky that shadowed the ground. The flashes of lightening were so vivid and fast; they reminded him that the job needed to be done, and done fast. Looking through the scope of his rifle, he saw the Prime minister having a drink and talking with his guest. He whispered to himself, “it’s your last drink, drink it slow”. His quiet but growling voice was almost like the growl from a lion. He wanted to strike only when there was no one present except the Prime minister himself that way there’d be no one to help, but more importantly, no witnesses. The church bells in the distant rang to the twelve o clock mark. With a big sigh, he rested his gun on the ground of the rooftop; he leaned back, and rested his head on his colourless backpack, knowing that it was going to be a long night.

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Once again he started reminiscing, He began once again to remember the deer slip away, he remembered the crystal brown eyes, and the agitation as it took one last breathe. He began to think about his other kills, his ex-wife was part of his death list, well in his eyes, she shouldn’t have cheated on him. Knocked her dead, cold as ice, but at close range using the very gun she bought him for Christmas, a single barrelled revolver pistol. His latest client was the second wife of Jean-Luc, president of Cambodia. She wanted to hurt him bad, real ...

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