Target Down - The Ghost Assassin

Fat Fucking Pig

The night air is crisp and the smells of oil, noodles, stirfry veg and soya sauce hangs in coolness of the streets lined with venders yelling out prices and slogans to all the passersby, trying to sell as much of their delicacies as possible.

China Town is one place someone can go unnoticed and their faces could easily get lost in the crowds. During the Dragon Fest, thousands of people take to the streets to get a taste of authentic Chinese foods.

An ocean of people from everywhere, roll in and about the streets in waves, all waiting to catch a glimpse of a paper dragon or two.

Streemers, whistles, crackers and loud chatter echo throught the alley ways, making everything else unheard.

On the top floor of a three story pagoda, a rather over weight slob sits at a dinner table. His suite shirt is splattered with oil stains and the buttons around his mid section are pulled so tight that his stomach shows through the pulled open gaps of material between each button.

A corner of a cloth servitte is tucked in at his stranglingly tight collar, holding a non existent neck. The rest of that serviette hangs limply down the front of his shirt, not covering much.

The pudgy, round face that sicks out of the collar is reddened from the heat of the food steaming in front of it. The slicked back, meduim length, black hair is so oily that it looks like the man had  bathed in an oil slick out at sea.

Other than this fat pig stuffing his face with food, he is alone at the table. Alone in his appartment in the pagoda.

At his front door which has a sensor lock on it, linked up to an alarm system. There are three well dressed men. There is no oil on these three, not even a spec of dust. Their faces are blank and they stand there unmoving. No sound coming from them, not even as they breath. They're just statues. Waiting. Listening.

The fat pig inside, jerks his chair backwards from the table and walks away, burping, grotesquely without putting a hand in front of his mouth to stop the tiny pieces of regurgitation from flying out passed his thin slimy lips.

The faintest sound of a click is heard as the window lever slides across, unlocking the window.

The lights are dim, giving the room a warm orange glow and the sound of running water is barely heard over the noise erupting from the street as a ten meter long paper dragon weaves its way through the street below.

The water sound abruptly comes to an end.

The bathroom door swings open with not much force.

Another beltch.

The fat pig steps away from the bathroom door with a finger digging in its mouth.

A silent slip of a silver blade. Just deep enough through his throat to silence him. Only a trickle line of red ink starts running down his short thick neck and onto his chest.

His hands grab his neck in pure terror and before he can even take a step blackness takes a hold of his mind.

Waking up a few minutes later, his eyes scan his room which doesn't look right. Everything seems to be upside down.

With the edge of towel he had wrapped around his buldge of a stomach now gently flapping at his chin, he tries to pull himself up right. A futile effort.

Still unable to croak a single syllable he sways back and forth as his panic raises. Until a figure appears in front of him.

The blood that had rushed to his head while being upside down drains from his face as this silent figure stands before him.

The light from the bedside table, gets caught and reflects off a shiney metal surface in the figures hand. This metal surface is framed with a dark paint on its one side. Instinctively he reaches for his throat once more and reviewing the palm of his hand, covered with the same paint, his eyes boldge and his throat tries to produce his begging which comes out as.... Nothing.

The figure crouches down and tilts its head. Looking at him.

There is no face to this figure. Just a set of eyes, primitively, burning through a black mask, reminding him of the lastest ninja movie he watched a couple of day ago. But those eyes... They were here to bring nothing but death.

The figure stands up, coldly grabbing his crotch.

The fat pig tries to plead.

The pain this figures blade made to his crotch was beyond anything he had experienced in his life.

Tears, sweat and drool dripped from his face and he again tries to scream for the statues standing outside his door.

His eyes try to focus on the figure again but his vision is curtained by an ever increasing flow of red running down from the once white towel slapping and periodically sticking to his chin.

The figure crouches once again, this time holding his cock in its hand and not a blade.

With the free hand the figure grips down on his jaw forcing his mouth to open and his own cock is shoved into his mouth and down his throat.

Both the shock and now increasing lack of air to his lungs has him thrashing around like a fish being held by its tail.

The figure. Just stands there.

His thrashing subsides and the life in his eyes fades. Until the fat fucking pig hangs there, limp, drained of blood and unblinking, the figure silently slides out the thrid story window once more. Closes the window and all that is heard is the drowned out, soft click of the window lock as it slides back into place.

Target down.