An Assassin's Work is Never Done
Author's Notes:Based on a silly e-mail from Relentless, this snippet was created for the Fight Club's "Flame the Fight day."
The single shaft of moonlight fell on a dark figure. He'd been working hard, and sweat beaded his forehead, crystal in the dark splendour of the moon. Chest heaving, he backed up to lean against the old, stone pillar, and just for a moment, the hand holding the gun dropped to his side.
"Where the fuck are all these damn vampires coming from? I hate vampires! I don't even know this Buffy broad they all talk about. I have a life, dammit! I don't have time to watch tv all day, I have places to go, people to meet and kill." Grumbling, he rooted through the pockets of his leather jacket.
Mutters of "Where the fuck did I put that silver bullet." stirred the air. "And what's this shit with killing people who won't stay dead? Fucking damn immortals. I out to cut them their arms and legs off and let them live like *that* for the next 1000 years. I bet the bastards won't be so smug then."
He glanced over to the left, where there were a couple of figures, indistinct in the gloom. "Who the hell is this big lug called a "Sentinel" and why is this crappy, sappy kid yapping at his heels all the time. You'd think a man with supernatural hearing would just kill the little bastard so he could have some peace from that mouth! Now I have to deal with werewolves!"
Unerringly, he shot from the hip, and there was a yowl from the darkness, followed by whimpering and scuffling as his target ran off. "My life has turned into an Abbott and Costello movie! Where's fucking Frankenstein? I have to carry crosses, silver bullets, swords, and stakes. Shit! I might as well get a pentagram, a star of David and a fucking LUCKY PENNY!"
A hand on his shoulder made him execute a perfect pas de chat as he turned in mid air. Nose to nose with a grinning Fox Mulder, he let his irritation show just a soupcon, sinking his fist into the other man's tender belly, and then grabbing his hair as he folded in two. "I just want to do my job! Leave me the hell alone!"
Dropping Mulder temporarily, he grabbed for a tennis racquet, and executed a perfect overarm smash, driving the bat that was strafing him down onto wet concrete. Then, slinging the purple, wheezing Mulder over his shoulder, he turned, and ran for the comparative peace and safety of his car...
An assassin's work was rarely if ever finished.
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