Achilles' Heel - an original short story

The story.

     This is Paris. He is brown-haired, of middling height and would be tough to pick out in a crowd if it weren't for his eyes. One was a deep black and the other: a striking blue. Normally, he is just a taxi driver but sometimes he picks up the odd job as a contract killer. One day his favourite client offered a new contract. The aforementioned client was Toni Dirazelli, the leader of the most feared gang in New Dublin; the Mutilated Puppies. In fact, Paris was also well-known in the criminal underworld. He was known as the Janitor; whose infamy was second-to-one. This one was a ruthless leader of the local yakuza, pretty much the japanese mafia, known as Achilles because he seemed invincible but also to remind himself to stay wary. Enough exposition, I've started to bore even myself.
     "Why are you here?" demanded Paris through the door.
     "I've come to speak with the Janitor," Toni said from the front porch in response to Paris' query. "He may be interested in what I have to say."
     "He's listening," replied Paris.
     "This is some serious graffiti for 'The Janitor' to clean up. it's all over th-"
     "Enough with the metaphor," Paris interrupted. "Hurry up with the blasted offer ere the Janitor loses interest!"
     "Fine, I need Achilles gone," amended Toni. "He's got some dirt on me and I'm as good as dead if it gets out," he continued urgently.
     "How much?" Paris inquired. "I need at least two hundred grand before I even consider it."
     "Double if you can keep my name out of it," begged Toni
     "Done," agreed Paris eagerly.
     Four hundred grand for one hit, Paris smiled to himself. That was too easy. He knew Achilles had checked into the Hotel Tromploy* alone very recently and rides in his chauffeur-driven armoured limousine. He cleaned and assembled his favourite sniper rifle, the russian-made Dragunov, in preparation for the hit. Packing it into his sports bag, he mentally prepared himself.

     Later, Paris pulled up near the hotel. He stopped at the restaurant across the street to scout out his target's current place of residence and also because there was a poorly hidden stairwell leading to the roof right next to the restroom. The asian waiter came to take his order.
     "The number 10, please," Paris ordered confidently, his mind on more important manners. There was no way he, the Janitor, could fail a mission as simple as this.
     He did not like the soup–too much salt–but the salad was great. Paris slurped down the soup because he needed the sustenance then devoured the salad. After all, he had an appointment he did not want to miss.
     Ten minutes later, he was in position on the roof of the restaurant after a quick trip to the restroom. And he waited. It felt like hours but was probably more like 20 minutes, things were getting a little hazy. Finally, an armoured limousine pulled up to the curb and out hopped a young oriental boy.
     Paris' throat tightened, Achilles is just a kid? He couldn't live with himself if he killed a child. He almost dropped the american-made rifle. Quickly, he composed himself; almost half a million big ones were walking right out of his hand. Why? Because the almighty Janitor was getting cold feet. Lungs and a heart, lungs and a heart. "A conscience?" snorted Paris incredulously. "In the go-to hitman; the Janitor? Simply preposterous."
     Mercifully, he snapped back to reality before he could chastise himself for talking to himself. His lapse in focus almost let Achilles get away. Hastily, Paris lined up the shot and squeezed the trigger. He almost left before he realized that the bullet had had no effect. "Did I miss?" he mused aloud.
     Paris was flabbergasted, the kid hadn't even reacted to his shot. Wouldn't someone who was getting shot at flinch at the very least?
     Suddenly, he heard a noise behind a chimney and two unicorns pranced out. "Anyone else hidden behind the bright pink smokestacks?" Paris asked tentatively. To himself he added, "I've gotta be trippin'."
     "Yes, although I do not see the first to which you refer," said the waiter from earlier, stepping out from his hiding place.
     "The unicorns, man. What else?" Paris supplied amicably.
     "Ah yes," the waiter said. "So that's what happens when the drug's programming runs out," he added quietly.
     "Who are you?" asked Paris, suddenly suspicious.
     "I am known as Achilles," the waiter began. "And-"
     "But that kid-"
     "Do not interrupt!" Achilles yelled. "As I was saying, I slipped something into your soup, a programmable hallucinogen called Monkey See, What We Want, tastes a bit like salt actually. That child; in your head, the limo; in your head even the gun you shot was not real. Unfortunately for you, this is very real. Once the programming runs out, it's like any old LSD trip. Do you know how I knew you would be in the diner? A man named Toni Dirazelli needed money and I was only too happy to oblige. I figured the Janitor would be informed of the dirt I left all over the place and come to clean up. I didn't want that to happen, you might have found my weakness. Because of this eventuality, I sent in my own little Trojan Horse. Of course, said horse will never see a cent because of a tragic accident in which it broke a leg then had to be shot. Toni should really check his brake lines before travelling anywhere. You have played right into my hands," he finished with a bow.
     "I suppose this time I am the Achilles and you've found my heel," Paris realized despairingly
     "Yes, the great, undefeatable Janitor should have worn bullet-proof socks. Do you feel lucky? No, you say? Too bad."
     I suppose the Janitor was not as skilled as he thought he was, thought Paris as Achilles raised a 9mm to Paris' head saying, "Apollo, guide my arrow."
     The dancing, yellow unicorns keened in unison as a report cut through the stillness of the evening and their only observer fell flat on his face, mind-blown.

The End

*a misspelling of the word trompe-l'œuil meaning optical illusion.