Yeah that is correct. After a LONG break from doing writing of my own I have started to write again on a LiveJournal. Of course I have always valued the opinions of my fellow TFFers over the years and so I would like to post them here as well to get some feedback from my peeps here on the forum. I've also requested my friends and readers to suggest ideas for future writing topics, whether a story or poem or just a generalized rant on a subject. I invite all of you to do the same if you so choose.

This first entry is based upon the suggestion of "knife in a gun fight", and I think it turned out rather well. For those of you that have read, or even seen, The Watchmen, I tried to imitate the style of Rorschach with the writing. Give me honest feedback here, I can take criticism as well as I can take compliments. (both are ideal, ha ha)

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The night is my ally as I move from building to building. The downpour covers the sound of my movement as I close in upon my target. The streets are quiet tonight. Perhaps too quiet. Someone knows too much in this part of town, and I am bound to find out what. Maybe there is going to be a big heist tomorrow. Maybe someone has a mark on their head. Irony. Someone involved has a mark on their head tonight. I pull my faded fedora down to my eyes. The rain was beginning to bother me. Can't have my vision obscured. That is how people die in this line of business. They forget to be careful, overlook details. Small things. Even the small details missed can lead to death.

I spot my destination: a run-down apartment in the heart of the slums. My mark is on the third floor, could be a problem getting there. I pass along the building, observing its exterior carefully. The side alley brings the stroke of luck I was waiting for: a fire escape. The ladders are even extended. How convenient. This is going to be an easy night. Perhaps too easy. I check my things before I head up. Rope, knife, cigarettes, gloves, screwdriver. Gun is missing, must have fallen somewhere. No matter, mark is likely sound asleep at this hour. Knife is quiet, but messy. In this part of town quiet might be better.

I climb the ladder to the second floor. My shoe slips on the way up, glad I have a good grip on the ladder. Clinging to the ladder close, waiting for any sign of noise. Silence. My blunder didn't wake anyone. Need to be more careful. Sloppiness leads to death. I reach the third floor without any more difficulty. The window to the room of my mark is cracked open. Lucky night. I stand outside and observe, watching for movement. The sound of peaceful snoring is music to my ears. Too good to be true. Easy paycheck tonight.

I slide the window up, it resists at first. I use more force and it grudgingly complies. I move silently toward the bed, knife in hand as I near my mark. Click. I freeze where I am, confused by the sound. The snoring continues, but there is someone behind me. He has a gun pointed at me. Bad luck has found me. He speaks in a raspy whisper, barely audible. I don't answer, I couldn't hear the question. He asks again.

"Who sent you?"

I turn toward the voice and see my mark standing there. Someone tipped him off. Job is forfeit, need to escape. He takes a step toward the window and asks a third time. I allow silence to be the only answer he receives. Bad reputation for squeelers. I never talk, I get answers. Mark's hands seem unstable, shaking slightly. Intimidation may be my ticket out.

"Move," is all I say to him. He stands his ground, but his hands shake more now. I take a step toward him.

"Stop or I'll shoot."

"You lie. You've never shot a man."

"You came here to kill me. Who sent you?"

"Step away from the window and you will survive the night."

He doesn't move, but his hands are shaking so much that his aim is unlikely to be true. Observation is key now. He is standing on a rug. If I could get his gun, I could still collect the reward. Time is almost out, must make my move. With trained speed I drop down and jerk the rug free. My mark loses his balance, falling to the floor. A gun shot fires off behind me as I leap out the window. The rain welcomes me back. I scurry to the escape ladder and climb down, noting that my mark is exiting the window too. Bad luck.

He is more skilled at this than me. He slides down that first ladder with ease. I am almost to the ground. I drop down, feeling the shock of impact from my feet up. I ignore the pain and run as another shot echoes the night. I hear it ricochet nearby. This is too close for comfort. I exit the alley and another shot fires off. I feel the pain in my right ankle. Warmth soaks into my shoe. I push on and round the corner. I can't outrun him anymore. Need to be smarter.

I duck into the entrance of a building. No lights on, hopefully they are asleep. I can hear the footsteps of my mark growing closer. I hold my knife tight, ready to pounce like a cat. Surprise is my only hope. A flash of lightning allows me to see his face. Did he see me? He was looking the other way, so couldn't have. I have one chance at this. He is checking another doorway. Good, he will come to me. I lean back further into the darkness, allowing it to embrace me fully.

I can hear his breathing now, even with the downpour. It is uneven. He is nervous. He pokes his head first into the darkness. His mistake. The blade of my knife cuts smooth through his skin. He drops to the ground without a sound. Too easy. He will be spotted early, should make tomorrow's news. Payday will come fast with this one. Time to head home.

Next morning I wake and turn on t.v. They run a feature story about my mark. Thirty seven years old, divorced. Two children shown mourning. Mark is some sort of scientist. Something about close to a cure for cancer. A pity, I could have liked the guy. Never done a crime in his life. Too bad. Someone wanted him dead. I carried it out. Kill or be killed, that is the way of the world. That is how I live. It is how I will die. Only I won't be mourned, not like my mark. No one knows me. Better that way.