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    Sharpen Up The Knives

    Sharpen

                 Up

                    The

                          Knives

      

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

    Toronto, Canada. Dec. 21 1998

     

     

     

    Snow banks piled ten feet high great me as I get out of the all terrain vehicle. I grab my gear and ask myself, please just do this one more time….more like tell myself that this is the last one. This is end of the road. No more death, no more jumping out of airplanes no more training with vipers, target practice, base jumping, no more dirty jobs for someone else. After this one I am through. I am out.

     

    I spent the last 5 years of my life doing this. Running around killing people. I am beginning to think that my job is the reason why I can’t talk to people. Why I don’t have a pet, why I never even kissed a woman who I wasn’t going to shoot next. No this is it. I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore. The agency will just have to get by without me.

     

    Two conversations in my head. One with me and one with reason. And reason says I won’t live past today….The agency never lets you leave. Blood in blood out. I knew this when I signed the contract my junior year in high school. One thing at time. One thing at a time….

     

    Gear on my back as I trudge through the swirling howling wind. Only the devoted and the moronic were out in this. I use the grappling hook and climb up the side of the hotel that shares space with the Sky Dome. Higher and higher I climb and I still don’t see the vent in sight. Fear almost gives me wings as the wind nearly knocks me off my course. I see the vent shaft and use my leverage to kick it in. I settle myself in the vent and set up ready and not ready to do this job.

     

    The roof is closed at the Sky Dome. The blizzard outside keeping most of the attendees away. My all purpose artic parka and matching track pants are the only thing keeping me from freezing to death high in the adjoining hotel’s exhaust duct. Through the looking glass….or scope, I estimate that my target or mark has officially been made. I click the dial back a little to get a better look. The man in his late 50’s with a medium build and thinning hair didn’t seem like a bad guy. I wondered why The Artist wanted him dead.

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    Comments

    1. WOW!!! I was like “Oh my God” when I saw your name. I`m so glad that you decided to give us more of your stories! You`re so beyond talented and I can`t wait to read more! This is just amazing, please update soon!! ;-)

    2. did i ever told you you were the fucking best…. jajaja i love you more and more each time you post someting. you dont know how glad i em yu desided not to go away for good…. i was starting to get depressed lloll loving this one….. loving it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! oo and please continue the other storys a well please please!!!!

    3. I knew you couldn’t stay away 8) LMAO. Glad you’re posting again, and damn I’m all hooked up with this plot line! I agree with BVH…lol…damn those transmitters! But please, don’t spare the gory details! 8D PPS!

    4. You don’t even know how happy I am that you are back!!! This weekend I was moping and complaining to a friend about how upset I was that my favorite fanfic author wasn’t going to be writing anymore and then I come to this site hoping beyond hope that maybe you had posted something…I nearly stopped breathing when I saw this. I can’t wait to read more….I AM SOOOO HAPPY RIGHT NOW!!!

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