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"Alright sir, looks like your visa is all in order, have a nice flight."
At this I stare at the portly, middle aged women curiously, debating weather she was joking or not. I'm tempted to just let loose, and kill everyone at the place, but I'm on business. Rather, I'm on somebody else's business, I'm just a means to an end. Not that I mind. I decide it's not worth it, and continue on to the metal detecters. The airports almost empty, which suits me fine. People make me nervous, I can't help thinking they'll eventually notice that I'm not like them, and make things hard again. I don't mind murder, but I'm not big on slaughtering defenseless people, unless they ***** me off, like that housewife. The cop at the detecters tells me to put my metal stuff in a tiny little basket, and to put my bag on the conveyer. I do both, and walk through the boxy detecter. It hums a little, but is otherwise quiet. The man turns, and looks inside my bag, I assume using an x-ray machine. He nods, and hands me my bag on the other side of the detecter. I smile blandly at him, and walk into the corrider. It's carpeted, and smells of steriliser. I get to the plane, where a smiling attendant takes my ticket, looks at it, and tells me I'm on the right flight, and tells me to take my seat, in First Class. Now, normally, I wouldn't fly First Class, as a matter of principal, but the man that hired me wanted his tool to be viewed as the best. And for a mindless killer, I guess I am pretty high up there on the scale. Ten grand a hit, enough to get me by, and enough to be on the job constantly. I stopped counting the warrents for my arrest on fourty three, but many times there've been no witnesses, and the police have been baffled as to who killed the person. I sit down next to a rich, portly businessman, who looks disdainfully at my leather jacket, and poor condition jeans. He thinks I don't notice, but I do. I also notice he's got the smell of seman on him, and either he jacks off right before he gets on a flight, whch I doubt, or he's gay. I'd guess the latter, seeing as how rich people tend to lose their minds. He turns my way, preparing to speak, which obviously takes some effort for him.
"Where are you goin, kiddo?"
"New York. Why?"
"Just wondering, you know, passin tha' time." He's got an accent, one that I don't like. I give serious thought to moving next to someone that doesn't want to follow and rape me, but I stay seated.
"Oh, whatever, what about you?"
"Ah, well, going from New York to Pahris, to Russia, thats right, goin all tha way across the big blue."
"Fascinating. Don't mind if I go to sleep, do you?" He's clearly put off about this, which is exactly what I wanted. I didn't get on the flight to pass bullshit small talk with crusty rich white people.
"Nah, nah, suit yerself youngster."
With this, I close my eyes, and blank my thoughts. Before long, I can feel my outer stuff shutting off, my grim demeanor sliding off my face, my reflexes slowly relaxing. Eventually it all goes dark, and thats when the memories start.
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Wait, you mean that optimism isn't fashionable anymore?!
Lord of Smart-ass Youthimizzles.
Soup's up, bitches!