Copyright© 2004

This is a dark tale. It is not about sex, though there is some allusion to some sexual matters. Read it at your own discretion, but keep your hand out of your pants. You won't find anything to stroke about in this one. If killing and graphic violence are not your cup of tea, skip this one.

What does it take to kill a man? In the sixties, for me, all it took was an order.

"Take out that sentry."

Hand over mouth and sharp jerk backwards to get him off balance. The blade plunged in just below the ribs, the shock of it entering his kidneys keeping him still long enough for the slash across the throat that severed carotids and windpipe. Quick, quiet, efficient.

"There's your target, sniper. The one with the officer's cap."

The sharp crack of the expanding gases that propelled the bullet at supersonic speed from the muzzle of the rifle sounded extraordinarily loud in the stillness of the jungle. Never mind. A thousand yards away, the Charlies near the officer heard the meaty thwack as the slug impacted his skull, and felt the spray of blood and tissue before they heard the shot. The spotter and I were long gone before the enemy even left the compound to search for us.

Dozens of little brown men died under my blade or by my bullet. Others, I did with my hands. I didn't know it at the time, but a little bit of my soul died with each one of them.

When we lost, turning our backs on the excuses we made for being there to begin with, I had nowhere to go. I tried various jobs, but there aren't many legitimate civilian jobs for which being an assassin prepares you. This cardboard box is my home now. I keep my cart close at hand, but everyone knows better than to touch my stuff.