Somebody'll be screaming it by the end of the night. It's an inevitable fact, a truth of the trade. There's always somebody screaming "murder", or "arson", or my favorite, "rape" at the top of their lungs. You just can't avoid it, no matter how good you are at what you do. Of course, if you're good enough, you don't have to be around to hear it.

Yeah, I'll have somebody screamin' bloody murder. But not yet; not while the man I've been studying for a month is still sitting at his desk, drinking his drink and smoking his smoke. Just relaxing, you know. Ruining thousands of lives a day is stressful work, y'know.

There I go again. Losing track of time when I should be working. It's a bad habit, but hey, it hasn't gotten me killed yet. It's rather dark on this window ledge, and I can't see my watch. It's a Rolex, by the way, and I'm very proud of it. It's my badge of respect. Where I work, getting one of these babies is the company's way of showing how valuable you are to them. Yeah, they're nice people, better than that pompous self -satisfied little prick sitting in his comfy chair. Meanwhile I perch on a window ledge countless stories above ground. It's cold up here. And it's getting later by the minute, as it often does. I suppose I should get back to the matter at hand.

Cutting through glass is no problem with the tools I carry around. Of course, that tends to leave a rather obvious hole in the window, and we never want to leave clues, do we? If you answered yes, you're either crazy or an idiot. Neither type interest me, as crazy people are usually locked up, and idiots don't need people like me to kill them. Now what do you do when you want to leave the scene of the crime as normal as possible? You wait to be let in. Persistent tapping at the glass usually does the trick. And this time is no exception. They're so predictable.

Shot glass in hand, cigar in mouth, my chubby target doesn't look very threatening as he opens the window and looks around. But you never know, and fat old men can be hazardous to the health. So I do my best imitation of a shadow until he turns the other way. I'm very good at imitating a shadow, and I make a lovely spot on the wall. That's wall, not sidewalk, by the way. Our tubby friend doesn't know what hit him, which is the point.

I consider killing him right there, but that wouldn't suit my rather artistic flair. So I resign myself to dragging the damn tub of lard to his desk. A very nice desk it is, too. Endangered Brazilian Rosewood. Worth more than five families make a year 'round here. I arrange him rather artfully in his chair and take the time to pocket a rather pretty looking paperweight. So I like pretty sparkly things. Sue me.

Eventually the Fat One comes to. He looks at me groggily and opens his mouth like a dying fish to say something. I grin behind the black mask that shrouds my face. Open mouths make absolutely beautiful targets at point blank range when small handguns are involved. They can be a bit messy though, if not aimed properly.

His Royal Chubbiness lies bleeding his brains out, and I acquire a new paperweight. I don't care if it's not professional; I don't get much time to shop for stuff. Besides, the boss will forgive me, and probably take it out of my paycheck. It's the work of a moment to unlock all the windows and climb out of one, back to my perch on the window ledge.

Of course they'll know he was assassinated. What's the point of killing someone if nobody knows he was killed? I never could understand the point of that. Covering up a murder offends my sense of professionalism. Those stupid rookies who try covering up what they do give my job a bad name.

I carefully close the window behind me. I stand and wait there, knowing what will come next. Sure enough, the fat, old and dead guy's secretary comes in to see if there is anything wrong, as the tubby bastard usually calls her in to be pawed over after his drink. I count slowly in my mind.

1...2...3...wait for it...5...come on...7...8...9...10...what the hell's taking so long?...13...14...15...I begin to hum a little tune.

"MURDER!"

Twenty-three seconds. That's got to be a record for the longest time it took for someone to scream. I mean, I know seeing a dead body is a little shocking for the first time, but screaming should be an automatic reaction. I laugh openly at my train of thought. Very unprofessional, I know. Believe me, I know.

I silently rappel down the side of the building, chuckling to myself the whole way. But hell, I deserve a few laughs. After all a trained murderer doesn't exactly lead the cheeriest of lives. And yes, that's what I am. I've never had any illusions of being anything more or less than that. I don't call it the "planned extermination of a target", or the "dealing of justice in a less than legal manner". I've killed innocent children and corporate bastards. It's all a part of my job.

In this world you can live your life behind a mask, trying to hide what you really are. Or you can accept it and wear it with pride, for the whole world to see. Because to me, I'm just another citizen in a city full of murderers. Most other people just don't see it that way.