Another story; It's very long:

* * *

I exploit people. Plain and simple. It's my profession. On the payroll of the government. They send me to places to live, for years sometimes. Integrate with the local society; Gain their trust. Do whatever is necessary. Seduce powerful women. Kill for their husbands. Do whatever they ask of me. I have taken numerous drugs in this line of work.

But eventually, I bring the hammer down hard on these people. They never know what hit them. They're incarcerated into the prison system, if they're lucky. Most of the time, I leave the area in ruins of fire and bodies. Destroy everyone associated. Betrayal.

Naturally, I've made hundreds of enemies over the years; family members, associates, friends of the betrayed. Or, the betrayed themselves, those that are fortunate enough to be behind bars. I've changed my name, my physical appearance, even height, repeatedly. Plastic surgery. Facial hair, color of hair. I have to be untraceable, for both my safety and in preparation of the next mission. My government covers such costs. I am paid very well for this work.

For the months in between missions, I reside and relax at home. You might think that with all my accumulated wealth, I would own a large mansion, bristling with security guards and luscious women, fully equipped with cleaning staff, chefs, butlers, and a magnificant array of firepower. I actually live far out in the country, next to a red barnhouse with chipped paint. Before my property came into my possession, it was a farm. I own no guns, no weapons of any sort. No guards, no servants, no women. I don't even own a car or a telephone; Boss comes without warning, gives me an hour to prepare, and whisks me off to the next mission. I live in solitude and in secret. Only two people besides boss know where I live; they are very close friends.

On the day in question, I was sitting quietly in the dark, illuminated by candle light. Outside, drizzle quietly pattered. I was alone with my thoughts, and a glass filled with crushed ice and Crown Royal. Fluidly, I stood up, and made my way to the washroom. The bottle of tylenol lay open in the medicine cabinet, and I downed two. A slight headache.

I am uncertain if it was due to the alcohol, or the noise from the slight rain outside, but I heard nothing. I turned around to find myself face to face with Jude. My friend. Jude must have let himself into my home and snuck up on me. "Hey Jude," I offer, disquising my bewilderment. Jude's arm raises a gun; using both precision and speed Jude shoots me once in the stomach. I reel backwards into the open cabinet, sending medicine bottles and tylenol spilling everywhere. I turn my back on Jude quickly, holding myself up against the roof of the toilet with one arm and holding the bullet wound with my other. "You're a bad man," Jude told me simply. Both Jude and Pete are familiar with my work, but I have never heard a single complaint from either of them. I guess this is Jude's. "I have never killed a friend," I growl through the pain. "They were your friends. You tricked them! Then you removed them." I grab the heavy granite cover off the toilet in both hands, before spinning around and smashing Jude across the face.

Jude's out cold, gun lying adjacent. I briefly consider taking it and returning Jude's favour with a bullet, but decide against it. I will never hurt a friend. I let the lid slip from my hands and fall to the ground. My situation looks dire; I have stomach acids leaking into my chest cavity. I will be dead soon. Applying pressure to the wound, I make my way from the washroom to the kitchen window. Cautiously, I scan the yard. A black Mazda is idling out front, with my friend Pete leaning against it. There is a smoke in one hand and a gun in the other. Apparently, Pete wants me dead too. I contemplate trying to overpower Pete, steal his car, and drive to a hospital. But I don't believe I have that much time left.

With speed, I sneak out the back of my home, and into the barnhouse. The drizzle has turned to downpour. I climb up a ladder and collapse roughly onto a nearby pile of hay. After Jude recovers, it will take them a while to find me here. Some part of me realizes that one of the betrayed must have hired Jude and Pete to remove me. Which betrayed? A prisoner or a family member? It doesn't matter who, or why. What matters is that the betrayer has become the betrayed, by his friends of all people. I have always decided that in this line of work, death is just a stone's throw away; I have removed all fear of death long ago. Now that I am dying, I just want peace and to be left alone.

I also realize that I have gone into shock, because I see a vision of my mother. Radiant, she craddles my body in her arms and pets me softly. Quietly, to my rapidly dying form, she sings:

You are my Sunshine,
My only Sunshine.
You make me happy,
When skies are gray.
You'll never know, dear,
How much I love you.
Please don't take, my Sunshine away...

I wake up several minutes later. My seeping stomach has stained a blotch of red on the hay. Both Jude and Pete are standing over me, Jude's face slightly bruised. Both friends have guns pointed at my skull. "It's time to pay the Price."

In memory of Winifred Burkle, 1978-2004

* * *

-Originally posted June 23rd 2006

EDIT: I had never heard of 'Hey Jude' by The Beatles until after I wrote this. Pure coincidence.