Sanguinary Canary

By

Alison Cardew

In the animal kingdom, many curious things occur in order for life to progress. A male preying mantis often finds himself decapitated after mating with the female. A particular breed of spider, once hatched, eats the mother. It doesn't matter that she sacrificed everything for the babies, all they see is food. The same could be said of the male mantis. It's the ultimate sacrifice to repeat itself over and over again.

I'd often thought: what's the point? The ending is always the same. Give them no sympathy because it was a fate they all chose. If only they'd changed the natural order of things, then they might've survived.

How wrong I was.

It's amazing as to the depth of shit that floods your brain when you're about to die. Only now, on the other side, do I truly appreciate the crushing pressure to make one's last few moments in the world to matter. That my life, no matter what size, made an impact, and my final words be meaningful; immortalising me amongst the great many people that have graced this world.

"Well?" he asked, his frown deepening at being forced to wait for my answer.

I looked at him and smiled.

For the record my name is Richard Jonathan Petersen, Jr., although I haven't been called that in many years. In my profession names aren't important, superficial details like partner, kids, dog, reason for why I'm there far less. This is not to say it'll help me sleep better at night, it just has no purpose in the greater scheme of things. All that matters is fulfilling orders, getting the job done, and, most of all, receiving the cut. No questions asked; no answers told.

If it hasn't twigged yet, I am, in lay terms, a contract killer. Or, rather, was a contract killer. Up until several hours ago, I'd dedicated 22 years of my life to terminating a countless amount of targets for a little company not listed in the local yellow pages. The work was simple, the wage high, and I got to travel the world doing something I enjoyed. It was my life and I was good at it. Not the best, but far superior to some of the hacks around today.

But the time had come to change the natural order of things. Slowly the satisfaction and thrill of the kill settled into monotony. Every angle of killing a man was explored, the excitement gone as repetition repeated itself. I was tired and wanted a change. In this line of work a man retires to a coffin or a deserted ditch in the middle of the desert: choices I refused to acknowledge for myself. I had more self-respect that that.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I'd known, all along, that this line of work wasn't really for me. Sure, it felt that something was missing, but the more I thought about it, that missing piece was never there in the first place. But whether or not that mystical piece existed, an immense amount of dissatisfaction of life settled over me. I just wanted something more worthwhile. A change of scenery. A legitimate job, something that would allow me more sunlight.

But I didn't tell my Boss I wanted a goddamn tan. Just that I needed something different. That my time there was up and I had to go. And she was fine with it. Told me she'd miss my work, and me, and, since my mind wouldn't be changed, was forced to comply with my wishes. Even wished me luck when I walked out. Easy as pie, and no reason to think otherwise.

I mean, in spite of everything, the Boss was a pretty nice person. We'd known each other a long time. Hell, I'd even gone to one of her kid's birthday parties. Bought him a little train set. That had to count for something, right?

So, unemployed and knowing no other skill, not that I could put: Hardworking, type speed 92 words per minute, familiar with wide assortment of weapons, no qualms about killing people in my résumé, I'd returned to my apartment to make it my home. And in celebration of the first hours of the rest of my life, I'd sat in front of the TV familiarising myself with soaps while eating home-delivered Japanese, washed down with the best brewed beer available. Not a particularly good mix after a majority of my life spent on a strict vitamin and mineral diet, but still... Life had begun. The fresh page of the book of life stared back at me to fill it.

The empty feeling, while still there, filled slightly.

But after all that had happened in so many years in the industry, it shouldn't have been much of a surprise that one of my colleagues would be here in the bathroom with me at three in the morning. Something was fishy. And it wasn't the sushi.

A clear voice came out of the shadows. "What are you reading?"

I jumped, as one would, dropping the copy of Great Expectations to my feet. "Fuck! You scared the shit out of me!"

He stepped through the door, into the light, grinning. "So to speak."

My heartbeat, not having time to recover from the shock, continued its rapid rhythm when I registered his gun, silencer attached, hanging from his hand at his side. I didn't have to ask, knowing the reason for his visit already.

"How's tricks, man?" I managed to croak out of my instantly dry mouth, my eyes never leaving the weapon.

He shrugged. "Can't complain."

"Well I'd get up to greet you, but I'm a little detained at the moment..." I shifted in the seat.

He held up his free hand, motioning for me to stop. "It's fine, don't worry about it."

We both watched each other, the only noise coming from the buzzing fluorescent light above.

"Fuck, man," he muttered suddenly, shaking his head slightly. "You were supposed to be asleep."

I shrugged, forcing a smile while simultaneously swallowing the basketball-sized lump of hysteria rising up my throat. It lodged itself halfway.

"Yeah well... you gotta go, you gotta go."

He nodded. "Ain't that the case."

There was a long, awkward pause, as we, once again, watched each other. He had a conflicted look on his face, adjusting and readjusting his grip on the gun. For some reason he had decided not to kill me yet. Accordingly, I felt compelled to speak.

"So... you're looking good."

I hadn't seen him since Moscow, a couple of years earlier, and he still looked the same: scrawny. The complete opposite to what you'd envisage a contract killer to be. Which works in his favour, since, when you see a skinny pale kid with thick glasses and an asthma inhaler tied around his neck coming at you with his hand in his pocket, your last thought before he pumped a bullet into your brain is: where's the Star Trek convention?

The very same thought I had when he was first assigned to me, ten years earlier. Still battling with unresolved anger issues with bullies from highschool, he was a natural. I'd taught him everything I knew, bringing him to be one of the best in his generation. The underling I was proud of.

"Yeah, you too," he replied. "Given the circumstances..."

I looked down at my body, naked save for the ankles where my boxers lay. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I guess subconsciously I'd known all along that something like this would happen. That, like everyone else, the only way out is in a coffin. But, as the saying goes, those things only happen to other people. I thought I had a chance.

"My time is up, then?" The answer was so blatantly obvious even a blind man could see it, but I still held the sliver of hope he was here to catch up on old times. There was a first for everything.

"Yeah, man. Sorry."

I nodded, half wondering whether he meant what he said, half knowing already. "Was it the Boss's idea, or did you volunteer?"

He remained silent, merely watching me scrabble at the air around me for something to steady myself on.

So the hunter becomes the hunted. An adrenaline-fuelled chuckle rose from my throat as my brain went through every possibility to discourage him. "You know you don't have to go through with this..."

He sighed and loosened his grip on the gun, letting it dangle from the fingertips. "The same could be said of you."

"I said I'd never go back, and I won't."

"Hence our little meeting."

I shook my head, refusing. "But you could let me go... I was thinking Las Vegas: somewhere to disappear; pursue my life-long dream of Elvis impersonating. No one would notice."

He grinned at the inside joke of ours, that, if we weren't in our respected professions now, our next career path would be singing the King's songs to full-time alcoholics in some cheesy bar off the beaten track. "You know that's not possible. You can't even reach the high notes."

I returned the smile, an inkling in my head asserting that he could never shoot me. I was like a parent to him. Things would turn out fine.

He continued: "Anyway, if those were your plans, it's probably a good thing I came."

Despite his answer, I continued the smile, letting it freeze into a hideous malformation as I shrugged as if my demise didn't bother me, maintaining that tradition of apathetic coolness from years on the job. "Well… it was worth a try."

He smiled slightly, still maintaining that aura of silent danger around him, still maintaining a grip on that goddamn gun. I realised where I was and began to humour him as I waited for him to put the damn thing away. I'd seen too many guns in my life; I didn't need to see any more.

"How 'bout letting me die on my bed or something; anywhere other than on a pile of shit?" I asked.

He shook his head. "I would, because I know you. But because I know you, it's best for you to remain here," he glanced to the bathtub at my left and basket of toilet paper rolls to my right, "defenceless."

I shouldn't have been so shocked. The guy was a professional. I'd taught him everything he knows, and here I was, pulling the most transparently noticeable trick available. If it weren't for the situation I was in, I'd be ashamed of myself.

"What about my pants? Can I at least put my pants on, for god's sake?"

I watched him contemplate every conceivable possibility in the nanosecond before he replied. All I could do, at best, would be to throw a couple of toilet paper rolls at him to distract his attention, then run for the gun. We both knew if that happened, I'd be dead before I made my second step. And, to add to that, still naked.

Such is the case when you're dealing with the superlative.

"When you're dead, you're dead. Modesty has no place in death, be it lying in a pile of shit or in a fucking rose garden."

Always the fucking realist. "So that's a no?"

He smiled and aimed the gun at my forehead, allowing me ample view of the blackness down the long barrel, but still keeping a safe distance away from any attempts of fighting back. In a flash I got sucked into the infinite darkness, spinning and tumbling in the tubular barrel, then spat out again. What I saw left me petrified. The lump of hysteria lodged in my neck pushed upwards, causing sweat to break out all over my body. I knew that in any upcoming moment, one simple bullet would help me meet my maker. Too soon. Too fucking soon. It needed to be prolonged. I couldn't die like this.

"No exceptions for old buddies?" I blurted in a panic.

He shook his head.

"How 'bout mentors who taught you everything you goddamn know?" My voice, raised, cracked at the end, and it, I could see, removed all doubt in his head about any last minute escape endeavours.

He paused slightly, giving me the hope that my undignified attempts to dissuade him worked.

"'Pull the trigger; it's best not to think of them as human,'" he said; the very words I told a younger, fearful kid before his first kill. The kid who, at the very last minute, backed out, until I, with a small amount of force, convinced him to take the shot. It was the only way.

I'd forgotten all about that.

Hope, whether it was there in the beginning or not, banished. Instantly I accepted my demise staring down at me through the darkened barrel. The natural order of things can't be changed, nor will they ever. My naive hope was just a waste of goddamn energy.

While my shoulders were slumped, I stared at him directly in the eye. "Your day will come, boy." In a sadistically callous way, the simple realisation made this entire ordeal worth it.

He smiled the smile of one who thinks it won't happen it him. The kind of smile I had plastered on my face as I walked out of the Boss's office several hours earlier.
"Any last words, or were those it?" he said.

My mind churned over millions of pieces of useless information gathered over years of watching people search for their classic last quote. Everything lead to the one conclusion.

"Well?" he asked, his frown deepening at being forced to wait for my answer, annoyance not hidden.

The moment stretched into what felt like minutes.

Finally I looked at him and smiled, the bitterness firmly imbedded in voice and face.

"How fucking ironic, don't you think?"

He paused for a second, contemplating over his mentor's final words of wisdom. Eventually he smiled and nodded. Then pulled the trigger.