The Traitor

Essay by KingleonardoCollege, Undergraduate November 2004

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My life as a hit-man was exceptionally electrifying. Every month or so, a letter with the phrase "Dear Jason L. Death" would be found at a bin behind my house, in the dark and unnoticeable alley. Before I opened any of the letters, they would greet me with images of my past victims. However, that did not deter me at all. In fact, I grinned gleefully, hoping that my next mission would be even more thrilling.

However, the exhilarating series ended just before the end of Halloween Day - the 1st of November, in 1982.

One gloomy night, I was busy wiping a piece of equipment. It was my favorite piece - a Silverballer Silenced Pistol. I gleamed into one of the 20mm bullets scornfully and asked it whether it needed a partner. The reflection of a sadistic killer exclaimed that no, two bullets will not be needed, and will never be needed.

Suddenly, a thrashing resonance rang from the alley. Slowly, I placed the pistol down on the table - without any sound. With a flick of my fingers over the curtained windows, I saw that the bin was tampered with. A shadow of a speeding human figure vanished in a split second and I knew it was time, again...

I grappled my tattered coat from Gory, my very own self-bred Japanese Tosa. His weight of 20 pounds may not be magnificent, but his list of victims far overshadows his physical attributes - ever heard of a dog killing a group of hyenas? Now you do. Gory easily gave way when I pat his head - only 3 times. Stealthily, I went to the bin and stretched my hands deep to get hold of the soaked 'mail'. Expectedly, the letter contained just the phrase I was awaiting. But...