Hossenna's Page

A blog featuring some of my writing.

[hossenna-blog]

What Lies Behind Mirrors

Death is the only way to quit my line of work. Many ways in, but only one out. Some enter this line of work by accident, some as a means for revenge and catharsis, and some have it handed to them as a birthright. I'm in the last category. A seventh generation exorcist from one of the seven original exorcist clans. It's in my blood. It's my way of life. When others were doing their abc's, I was out in the field with my grandmother, learning the ways of "our kind."

Now, make no mistake, I'm just as human as every other person. It's just that people in the clans have some sensory abilities that make them more perceptive to paranormal presences. It's probably genetic, but no one's ever bothered to actually find out. I've been performing exorcisms by myself for the past thirteen years, during which I've seen fellow exorcists come and depart. I've had my fair share of brushes with death as well. But no matter how many close calls you have, one can never really get rid of the feeling of dread and fear that surrounds the more sinister cases. And, judging by the bouquet of corpses in front of my eyes, this was going to be a difficult one. From where I stood, I could see six dead bodies, all human males, in their early twenties, naked and covered in blood. Probably their own. They were all piled on top of each other. There might have been more bodies underneath that I was unable to see. I moved closer to the pile. The smell of the blood was overpowering. I took a closer look at one of the bodies. And there on the neck, just like I had suspected, were two small puncture marks. A vampire. Or probably vampires. I looked at the other bodies. The bite marks were different. Some were close set, others a bit wide apart. So two vampires, atleast. And judging by the difference in the widths, probably a male and a female. A vampire couple. Out on a romantic escapade. I looked around the bodies, trying to see any footprints that led away from the bodies. Sunrise had been hours ago, and light was pouring into the room. The bodies were warm, and their blood was still dripping. The vampire's couldn't have gotten too far on foot. If they left on foot, that is. The only set of footprints led to the wall where a huge mirror was hung. My work got just a bit more exciting. Everyone in my line of work knows that one mirror leads to another. There's a huge network behind them. Most mirrors can only be used as passages to other mirrors in the shadow world. But some mirrors are different. They allow entering into and out of the real world. The trick to using the mirror network is simply knowing which mirrors to use. Judging by the footsteps, the mirror in front of me seemed to be one such special mirror. Without a second thought, I took a step forward and walked into the mirror. I was correct. The mirror did lead to the shadow world. The passage behind this mirror was a rough stony one. It was long too. I couldn't see the end of it. I started running, tumbling over the uneven stone floor. I could make out a faint ringing, like laughter, coming from ahead of me. The vampire's were not too far ahead. I ran even faster. I reached a corner, where there was a glass pane. Through it, I could see a young boy brushing his teeth. I poked the glass. My finger did not pass through. The boy didn't take any notice of me either. I turned the corner. It was a different passageway now. Made of Oakwood. My footsteps made a sharp noise against the wood. I could also make out faint noises of others' footsteps. I started running again. I came across five other glass panes, each of which led to a different passage, but did not allow entry into the real world. The last pane had led to a beautiful passage, made of rosebushes. The air was laced with their perfume. Just as I was about to sit down and take a pause, I saw a faint shimmer ahead. It was another glass pane. I went up to examine it. Through it, I could see a young couple, probably in their early twenties, making out passionately. They were also covered in blood. I stepped through the glass pane. The vampire couple stopped kissing. They looked at me with their fangs bared, making a hissing noise. The hair on the back of my neck rose. A heavy sense of doom settled deep in my gut. The couple was powerful. Perhaps too powerful, given their age. They emanated an aura that I had previously felt only in much older vampires. In less than a heartbeat, the girl was behind me, blocking the mirror. The boy was looking at me with a malicious grin on his face. He looked me up and down, and then said something to the girl in their tongue. The girl laughed. Her laugh sounded like a sparrow's song. The girl vampire spoke in English. Her voice was beautiful. "What's your name?" I told them. "I know your family," the boy said. His voice was melodious, but in a manly way. "You are a clansman." I did not reply. I was trying to think my way out of this one. Two against one. Normally, this wouldn't have been a problem, but these two were too powerful to be taken together. The boy vampire spoke again. "You have killed many of us. Maybe we should return the favor." "Let's have some fun first," the girl spoke. "We can't drink clan blood anyways." "True," the boy said. "We can hold him hostage. Use him for negotiations with his clan." The girl vampire grabbed my arms from behind. Her grip was strong, I couldn't move a muscle. The boy vampire came close and leered at me. His face was very close to mine. I decided to take a chance. I lurched forward and bit his nose. The boy vampire screamed. I did not let go. My teeth sunk deeper into his flesh, and purplish blood oozed out. As I bit him harder, a shockwave of energy radiated from the boy. It knocked both me and the girl off our feet. I let go of the boy's nose, and a split second later, I landed hard on the floor. His blood filled my mouth. It was foul. I spat it out. I looked up. The boy was holding his nose. The girl was supporting him up. They were beyond angry. They looked mad. They led out a bellowing scream and charged towards me. I got to my feet and dashed towards the mirror. I ran straight through it and was back in the passageway. I turned around, blew a spell onto my hands, and smashed the mirror with both my fists. It shattered into a million tiny pieces. The last look I had through it was that of the boy and the girl just inches away from me. I crumpled into a heap. I lay down on the rosebushes for a while, trying to calm down my nerves. It had been close. And no doubt, the girl and the boy would come looking for me soon. Perhaps here, in the shadow world, or in the real world. And this time, I would be ready. I got to my feet, and started walking down the passageway, making my way back to the pile of dead bodies. I had a lot to do, a lot to prepare. As they say, I'll rest when I am dead.            

[hossenna-blog]

Survivor

Rain drops keep falling on my head... The line from the song keeps repeating itself over and over in my head. Sure, its raining outside. But I feel a storm brewing up inside me as well. I've had a rough day. First a flat tire, then an accident. Then a trip to the ER. Ten stitches. And a $2500 bill. Not covered by insurance. Car totaled, so a cab ride home. Another $160. And then, as soon as the cab exits the highway, the f---ing rain. It's enough to drive a man insane.

All I want to do is go home to my clean little apartment and have a good sleep. Maybe I'll wake up with a clear head. Maybe tomorrow will be another day... I can see my apartment building now. Another five minutes, and I'll be comfortably lying on my bed. The cab stops in front of my building. The bill's $210 now. Not enough cash on me, so I hand over my credit card. Another $2 transaction fee. Great. Just f---ing great. The rain drops are now literally falling over my head. Huge drops, with lots of force. I am soaked to the bone just walking up to the lobby. The lift is out of order. Of course. A slow climb up six flights of stairs. My stitches hurt with every step. Wincing and heaving, I make it home. Ah, home sweet home. Maybe I should get a tiny picture saying that. Maybe it'll cheer things up a bit. The front door is unlocked. Fuck! I gently push the door in. Everything's gone. Just gone. Vanished. I tiptoe to the bedroom. Cardboard boxes neatly lined up against the window. I can see some of my stuff inside one open box. That's when I see the letter, kept on top of a box. I open it. "By the time you read this, I will have already killed myself..." My heart is pounding. I can feel the blood pumping in my ears. The letter says something about depression and despair. Yada yada.... the futility of it all.... yada... my name. Shit. Fuck! There's a tiny creak of wood behind me. I react instinctively. I duck, and a huge hand misses my neck by inches. I roll over to the side. I hear a loud grunt, and feel the air move as the hand tries to grab me again. I roll over again, feeling the stitches tear up, pulling away my skin. I get to my feet and run. I run as fast as I can. I don't look back. I don't need to. I run out the door and just keep running down the corridor and six flights of stairs. I run straight into the rain, and see the cabbie from before near the corner. I wave my hands to signal him. He opens the cab door and starts the engine. I jump in and slam the door. "The airport. Step on the gas. Extra twenty for making it in under fifteen." *** Half an hour later, still soaking wet with rainwater and blood, I am ten thousand feet in the air. At this point, I feel like I am going to pass out. I am tired to the bone. Tired physically, mentally. And emotionally. My life for the past three years is over. But I'm still alive. And that's what matters. Onwards, I tell myself. To a new city and new life. Perhaps this time I'll be lucky. Those raindrops Are falling on my head They keep fallin' But there's one thing I know The blues they send to meet me Won't defeat me, it won't be long Till happiness Steps up to greet me Yeah... well, now if only I could believe in those words.            

[hossenna-blog]

The rise and fall of e-curses

Curses are real. Don't believe me? Try this: write the full name of the person you want to curse, picture their face clearly in your head, write what you want should happen to them, blow on the words, and give the written curse to that person. Easy peasy. Now wait and watch.

It takes 30 seconds for a curse to work. You'll know if it worked because curses take the energy from the person creating the curse. Stronger and longer the curse, they more energy they suck up. A lifelong curse, a lifelong energy drain. You remember that sweet old lady who fainted in the cashier's queue. Yeah, she wasn't all that sweet. She was a mean old bat who liked sending out nasty curses to young tarts and bozos. Now, the truly surprising thing is, that since curses are given via text, they can be given by any kind of text. Egyptian tablets. Carved Rocks. Morse code. Braille. Telegraphs. And later by SMS. Email. Facebook. Tweets. No one familiar with magic ever anticipated this. This was seen as the ultimate amalgamation of magic and science. Electronic curses became *the* fad. Don't like that girl. Boom, she now has acne. Don't like that guy. Now he's covered in fur. Don't like that country. One email later they have a famine and by now several million have died. And so on, you get the point. But there is a caveat to this. See, with paper based curses, all you had to do design the curse such that the paper burned at the end of it. End of story. But electronic texts aren't as easy to destroy. Even if you delete the text, it actually stays on servers forever. So that temporary dick shriveling curse that you just sent to your bro, yeah, the curse lasts only as long as you want it to, but they energy drain lasts forever. Bet you didn't see that coming. Too late, you've already sent the email. Can't do anything now, *bro*. Well, this drawback to electronic curses led to major business opportunities for some good-at-hacking people. Send out a curse, and they'll erase it for you. For moniez of course. But even they can't help the stupid. See, there was this one guy who sent a curse to his ex girlfriend via an email. He wanted "a car to run over her." Only the autocorrect made it "a carrot run over her." See, its funny. It gets even funnier. Carrots can't run on their own. They don't have limbs. You need powerful magic to make them sprout limbs and run. And that takes a whole lot of energy. So now, every time that girl goes to a grocery store, a single carrot magically sprouts teeny tiny legs, runs over her foot, stops, and goes back to normal. And every time this happens, the guy passes out. So, the moral of the story is, if you want to curse someone using that phone of yours, don't. Just don't. Make an effort to get out of the house and do it the old fashioned way. Unless of course, if you think you are the smartest shit. In that case, just go for it. Unleash your pettiness on the world. I'm always up for a laugh.           

[hossenna-blog]

A drunk, a Dog, and a Drug Dealer

Between 11pm and 2am is when all the craziness inside people comes crawling out. Its what my brother used to say. I had never really thought about those words, just sort of accepted them. My brother had been wise that way. My brother, younger to me by a year and a half, used to be a college student. Now he was just a corpse, rotting in a cemetery.

It was his third deathday today. So I sat all alone at the bar, drinking whiskey, trying not to think too much about him. I felt sad. Obviously. It was painful to think about him. His wasted life. Shot dead by some crazy at exactly 12:01am. Somewhere in the bar, a cuckoo clock chimed twelve times, trilling in a soft melodious bird voice. Once. Twice. Twelve times. I looked at my phone till the time changed from 12:00 to 12:01, and then downed a whole glass of whiskey in a go. I slammed the glass hard on the counter top. It shattered. The barkeep came up and asked me to leave. Politely. And he also asked for my keys. I surprised myself when I handed them over without a fuss. I silently grabbed my coat, and walked out into the night. It was hot outside. The bar had been air conditioned. My glasses fogged over as I walked down the steps of the bar. I ignored that. My mind was too busy trying to concentrate on not falling down. I didn't drink often, and consequently was not adept at handling drunkenness. As I made it down the last step, I mentally congratulated my self. Just 500 steps, I told myself, and I'd be at the curbside where I'd get a taxi. Then I could give in to the drunkenness. I swayed with each step that I took. I kept counting. At exactly a 100 steps, I tripped over something, and fell over. I hit the ground hard, face first. My hands scraped against the concrete. My glasses dug into my nose and eye sockets. And my brain felt like it had literally banged against the inside of my skull. The pain was excruciating. Still face down, I heard a whining. I cracked open an eye, but I couldn't see clearly. Then someone grabbed my hand, and started pulling me upward. I let myself be guided into a upright position, leaning, or rather falling, on the person trying to help me. "Can you stand on your own feet please?" a mildly irritated voice spoke. It took me a few seconds to process the words. I nodded and tried to stand on my own. I swayed a bit, but was steady overall. "I tripped," I spoke to the person who had helped me. He was just a kid. Probably fifteen or sixteen. Thin, with blonde hair. He looked, sort of, pretty. With soft girly features. Dressed in tight, but worn out, clothes. The boy rolled his eyes. "Yeah. You tripped over Eddie." He pointed down to a gray lump. It was moving. It was a dog. A dirty, mangy dog. It looked pathetic. And it was still whining. The boy was now kneeling in front of the dog, examining it. He looked from it to me, and gave me a look. A look that all drunks of the world get. A look that said "shame on you." I felt like a piece of shit. I had, in my drunkenness, hurt a possibly dying creature. The boy was petting the dog, running his hands over its filthy fur, making soothing noises. I felt a shudder at the thought of someone touching such a disgusting animal. And then I felt ashamed at myself for feeling disgusted. I reached into my pocket and took out my wallet. The boy went silent and looked at me. I took out a twenty, and then another, and held them out. "Please. For the dog. I'm sorry." The boy got up and took the money. His was still looking at my wallet. I quickly put it back inside. "You look sad." The boy's words were softer now. He sounded kinder. His face had a pitying expression. "My brother died," I blurted out before I could stop myself. "That's sad. How old was he?" the boy asked, bending down to pet the dog again. I knew that this conversation was going to end with me giving the boy more money. But, somehow, I couldn't look away from him. "Twenty." "So young," the boy spoke, "it's so tragic." The boy was giving the dog a sip of water from a bottle. I could see the dog's muscles move as it lapped up the water. The boy stroked the dog's ears as it drank. "You know, I have something that can make you feel better. Help you forget." There it was. My drunk brain went "Aha!" inside. I knew that I should walk away. But the sight of him petting the pitiful dog invoked a great sadness inside me. I didn't know why, it was probably all the alcohol, but I suddenly wanted to cry. It was an overwhelming, overpowering urge. I felt the tears spring up in my eyes. I bit down on my lip to hold back the tears. I pulled out my wallet again, took out a few notes without even looking at them. The boy immediately got to his feet and took the money. He counted it and put it in his pocket. He took a plastic packet out of his other pocket, carefully took out some pills and pressed them into my hand. I realized that he did all this with the same hand that had been touching that animal. I closed the pills in my fist tightly. The boy was again stroking the dog. A hot tear trickled down my cheek. The boy saw it too. I looked away. I needed to go home. To be alone. Biting down on my lip, clutching the pills in my hand, I started walking towards the curbside. I started praying that a cab would come and take me home. I was swaying back and forth, due in part to both alcohol and sadness. Mercifully, a cab pulled up soon. I opened the door and got it, without even waiting for the sole passenger to depart. I got another dirty look. I closed my eyes tightly. "Where to, buddy?" the cab driver asked me in an accented voice. I opened my eyes. "45th and main, the red brick building." I looked out the window. The boy was letting the dog lick his face. Even from the distance, I could make out the look of affection that the boy gave the dog. After the cab drove a distance, I rolled down the window and tossed the pills outside. Holding my head in my hands, I let the tears quietly flow down my cheeks.            

[hossenna-blog]

Going with the flow of things.

Curled up in blankets besides a dim fire, she strokes my hair, gently teasing it and twirling it in her fingers. I grin lazily, and watch her fingers for a while. They are short, with rounded tips and broad, chipped nails. I grab her hand and bite her fingers playfully. She smacks me with a pillow, but doesn't pull her hand away. I bite her fingers again, and then kiss them, then the back of her hand, her arm, her elbow, her shoulder, neck. I roll on top of her and kiss her lips. Her fingers are still playing with my hair.

An hour later, I watch her walking down the front steps of my building through my living room window. Her dark hair is gently blowing in the wind. I watch as a cab stops by her and she gets in. She looks up at my window, and catches me. It's too late for me to duck, so I wave at her, once. She waves back, and the cab drives off. I set about straightening the room, picking up the blankets and pillows, trying to hide all traces of her visit. I am just about finished when the front door opens and my roommate, his girlfriend, and her bff come in. They are all pink from the cold. I get up and offer to take the bff's coat, and she lets me. We all start talking about their trip to the mall, and how I missed seeing the huge tree that had been put up. The girlfriend chides me gently for being so lazy, and I put on a goofy grin. My roommate steers the conversation towards the exhibition in the new art gallery downtown, and how we should all go sometime. He hints, again, that maybe the bff should join us. And by us, he means me. The bff looks at me, and I nod coyly. It's all settled then, and we make plans. My roommate and his girlfriend head to the kitchen to cook, and the bff and I chat about classes and work. I see a small hairpin, barely sticking out from under the rug. It's hers, one of the many that she drops behind. They turn up every now and then when we clean the place. My roommate never comments about them. Doesn't try to poke his nose. Never asks. Doesn't really care. The bff doesn't notice the hairpin. She's putting on a record from my collection. I really like the record. My roommate's girlfriend likes it too. My roommate just pretends to like it, more for her sake than mine. The music fills the room, the bff talks about the one time she saw the band perform. My roommate does a really terrible sing along, and I throw a cushion at him. I miss, he sings louder. We eat, converse, laugh, drink, listen to music, discuss art, all at the same time. Soon, its just me and the bff, clearing away the dishes. We keep talking, she jokes, I laugh. She mockingly flirts with me, and I play along. We end up on the couch, making out. It's not bad, I enjoy kissing her. Then my roommate walks in, whoo-hooing. She gets flustered and pulls away. I grin at her, she grins back. Then she says she has to get up early. I offer to drop her home, but she say's she got her own car. I walk her downstairs to her car, and watch and wave at her as she drives off. I slowly reach upstairs, suddenly feeling tired. My roommate is back in his room. I bend and pull the hairpin from under the rug. I take it with me to my room, wishing that things weren't so complicated.           

[hossenna-blog]

The red riding hood story

The young woman was wearing a red dress, which in a sleepy village cemetery, was shockingly odd. The caretakers and other mourners gawked at her, but she did not seem to notice. She quietly, determinedly, made her way to the back of the cemetery, where family plots were located. She knelt down before a beautiful white marble headstone. She closed her eyes, lips moving as though in a silent prayer. When she opened her eyes, she saw an old man standing behind the plot, watching her. Even though it had been fifteen years since she had last seen him, she recognized him instantly. She got up, dusted her knees, and went to the old man. The old man gazed at her for a few seconds, then held his hand out for her to shake. The young woman shook his hand weakly, before pulling her hand away. She struggled to come up with an appropriate greeting. "Would you like to talk for a while?" she spoke hesitatingly.

The old man nodded. "There's a pub just down the road." The two of them walked in silence. They reached the pub and stepped in to a warm and cheery parlor. They both took a mug of Irish coffee and went and sat in an empty, isolated booth. The old man spoke first. "You seem to be doing well." The young woman nodded. "Yes. I am doing well. You don't too bad yourself." The old man smiled briefly in agreement. He took a deep sip of the coffee. "So what brings you back here, after all these years?" The young woman pondered over the question for a few seconds before replying. "It's hard to say. I've tried my best to not think about the events of the past. My family moved to Switzerland you know. To get away from it all. But no matter how hard I tried, I felt like something was waiting for me here. Sounds morbid, I know. But I couldn't take it any more. So I decided to come here and put those feeling to rest once and for all." "And what feelings might those be?" the old man asked, setting his mug down on the table. "Well, I guess, first is my gratitude to you. If it wasn't for you, I would have met a fate that I am too terrified to even think of. I never really got a chance to thank you back then." The young woman smiled at the man, but he did not smile back. She was a bit taken aback by his coldness, but continued to speak. "And then there's that question. Who? Why?" The old man regarded her with an expressionless face. "You don't remember anything, do you?" The young woman shook her head. Something in the old man's face softened. "It's best not to dig up the past, lassie. Let the bodies remain where they are. You're doing well now, so how..." "But I need to know!" the young woman interrupted him, her voice shrill, desperate. "You don't understand! I have these dreams where I'm covered in blood. Her blood. And there's this laughter. It keeps echoing in my head. I feel like I'm going insane. That it's driving me insane." She covered her ears, tears streaming down her cheeks. The old man reached out and grabbed the young woman's hands. The young woman continued to sob. "Dear girl," the old man spoke gently, "poor girl. Oh, may the lord bless the innocent. " He squeezed the young woman's hands. "I'll tell you everything, if it brings peace to your soul." "Please," the young woman whispered between sobs, "please. just tell me." The old man hesitated, as though battling some inner demons. He suddenly spoke in a rush. "There had always been these rumors about your grandmother. Nasty village gossip. About her younger brother. Her daughter. How they had died so young. How her husband died. How your father ran away from here. How no one liked to work at her house or gardens. And then, how that man moved in with her. Years later, you and your mother show up here, without your father. City people, smart and posh. A few days later, your mother stops by here for a drink, all alone. Say's you're at home with granny. That's when Paul, the barkeeper, calls me up, asks me to check up on you. Your grandmother's house was close to my workshop, so I rush over." The old man paused, gulping for air. "I can never forget what I saw then. You were stumbling around the gardens, holding an axe, splattered with blood. I went inside and saw the dead bodies. I grabbed you and called the police." The young woman had stopped crying. She tried to free her hands from the old man's grasp, but he held on. The old man continued. "Your father was abroad, but came over the next day. Your mother had brought you here without telling him. He was shouting at her here, in the pub. The whole village was watching. Your mother kept apologizing. They both took you and returned to the city. The police investigation continued for a long, long time. The police connected your grandmother and that man to at least five other missing children from the county. Their parents set her house on fire, threw stones at the police. I suspect your parents left the country to spare you from repeated interrogations. " The old man let go of her hands. The young woman stared at them for a long time. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. "In all these years, I never suspected. I never remembered. Not even now. How can I be so naive. So stupid. Of course, I should have realized. I should...." The old man interrupted her. "You're not stupid. You're brave. You were brave enough to protect yourself back then. And now, you're brave enough to face your demons. Not everyone would have had the courage to come down here looking for answers. They would have just slowly died inside. But not you." The two of them sat in silence for a long time. Finally, the young woman took a paper napkin and wiped away her tears. She smiled at the old man. The smile took all her effort. "Thank you. For telling me the truth. And those kind words. I'm not sure if I'm okay, but I know that I will be one day. It's like they say the truth shall set you free." There was a quiet determination in her voice now. She dug around in her purse, and pulled out a white envelope. "I'm getting married next month. I want you to come. Please, don't say no." The old man took the invitation and nodded. The two of them rose. The young woman kissed him on the cheek, then left without another word. The old man watched her until she turned a corner and disappeared from his view.            

[hossenna-blog]

The Foster Kid

Mary. Hey, how's it going? I saw your new hairdo on facebook. It really suits you. So, hey, about that thing you asked me to look into. I did a little digging, and turns out you were right! Henry really was in the foster system.  From when he was fifteen to eighteen. Somewhere out in Frisco. I guess he moved to LA when he turned eighteen. It's funny, I distinctly remember him telling me he spent his high school years with his parents. I guess he's embarrassed or something. Anyways, don't tell him I was the one told you. And how did you find out about this?

-- TC Eric.

*** So hey, after our call last night, I did some more digging into Henry. It's sort of turning into a whole Voldemort kind of thing, although I guess not as sinister. His mom's dead, his dad's in prison for killing her. That's when he was sent into foster care. He was kicked out of the first one for "ungodly" behavior. That's the exact word used in his file, whatever that means. The second one was raided in a drugs bust and the foster parents were arrested.  There's a four month gap between this one and the next. I guess he was homeless during that time, it says nothing on the file. Anyways, he stayed there for six months before he was sent to the fourth one. He was there for almost a year, then turned eighteen and was asked to gtfo. It say's so in the file. He was in touch with his social worker for a few more months, then nothing.     You know, after going through his file, I am not surprised he lied about all this. I mean, who wouldn't? He doesn't want people to judge him. Anyways, like I said over the phone, it's best not to bring up that you know all this. The guy deserves a break. -- TC Eric *** Call me. NOW *** Mary. I know you didn't confront Henry, but it's NOT cool telling others his story. Your dad's called me up three more times since yesterday, asking to look at his file. You know I can't do that. And even if I could, I wouldn't. You should tell that to your dad. *** So, I just got off the phone with your sister. Holy shit dude! You or your dad should have told me. Anyways, I'll look and see if I can find some info about when he was homeless. Take care. And stay safe. *** Mary. I did some snooping around the office, and I found another one of Henry's case files. It's for his homeless four months. It's been sealed by the court. Thank god for old fashioned hard copies! Turns out, he was in juvie for drug peddling. His case worker got the charges kicked and he was released.  The case worker told the judge that he was a good kid under bad influence and probably under threat of some kind of violence. The thing is, by looking at the case worker's notes, I can tell she thought he was guilty as hell. In fact, after this incident, she asked several times to get off Henry's case, but her requests were denied.  She died almost year after Henry turned eighteen, so I guess there's no finding out what was on her mind. Let me know if there are any new developments on your end. I'll be glad to help. --Eric *** I've been trying to call you! Call me as soon as you see this. You guys need to call the police NOW. *** Yeah. I'm alright. Just a bit shaken I guess. He just came out of nowhere. Thank god the neighbors were in. The doc's coming in, I'll call you later. *** I spoke to a lady who works on my floor. Turns out, Henry grew suspicious when your dad cancelled their plans to catch the game. He came by here to see if anyone had accessed his file. Saw me in one of the office pics. Put two and two together and stormed out in a murderous rage. She acted on her gut instinct and called the police and told them to check on me. Seriously can't thank her enough. I'm going to visit my parents over the weekend. Will talk in detail then. -- Eric            

[hossenna-blog]

For Love

Daniel picked up the gun and loaded it with bullets. He lit a cigarette and took a deep draw, letting the smoke fill up his lungs. He switched on the TV, went into the kitchen to pour himself a drink. Whiskey and a cigarette. He felt slightly better already. He smoked in silence for a while, waiting. He finished his drink and poured himself another one. Looking out the window, he saw a black car pull up in front of his apartment building. His hand tightened against his gun. Two people got out of the car and entered the building. Daniel started counting the seconds.

He quickly poured himself another drink and drank it one go. He could hear footsteps outside his door now. He had left it unlocked. He watched as the door slowly began to open. Knowing there was nothing he could do, he braced himself for the worst. The two men he had seen getting out of the car entered his tiny apartment. They spotted him standing in his kitchen, a gun in one hand, a glass of whiskey in the other. The shorter of the two men closed the apartment door. The tall, bulky guy went into the kitchen. "Hello, Daniel." The tall man's voice was gruff and hoarse. He was looking Daniel straight in the eyes. "Put down the gun. It's not going to help you now." "Oh, I know that. Even the Devil can't help me now." Daniel's voice was calm; the whiskey had done it's job. Daniel shrugged his shoulders and set the glass down on the counter with a loud clank. He wiped his lips with the back of his free hand. "Would you boy's like a drink? No? Well, suit your self." The short man had entered the kitchen as well. He was looking around with an expression of mild distaste on his face. "Great place you've got here. Perfect for a rat like you." "Thank you, my good sir." Daniel curtsied towards the short man. His words were slurred now. He could feel the alcohol induced dizzyness take over him. "Would you like a tour?" The two men looked at each other and nodded. The tall man moved towards Daniel, who immediately pointed the gun at him. The tall man stopped in his tracks. The short man took out a gun and pointed it at Daniel. "Well, this is awkward now, isn't it Daniel? Be a good boy and put down your gun." Daniel gave a small grunt of laughter. "I'll be damned before I do that. I'm not going down without a fight. You wanna get me, you gotta pay the price." "Why don't you shoot already then? Get it over with?" The tall man took a step towards Daniel, who took a step back, but didn't shoot. Daniel lowered his gun slightly. "How did you know it was me?" The short man did not lower his gun. "Sherry told us. Wasn't too difficult to beat it out of her." Daniel felt a knot of dread in his gut. "She dead?" "Nah. Just a little banged up. Will be back in business in no time." The tall man grinned to himself as he made a crude gesture with his hands. Daniel immediately raised his gun again, disgust and anger in every line of his face. The tall man's grin faded and a hard expression took over his face. "Yeah. That love is the reason you don't wanna shoot. You're gonna die anyways, don't make things worse for the girl." "Yeah Daniel. Just put down the gun." The short man gestured towards the kitchen counter with his gun. Daniel looked from one man to the other. They both smirked at him. With shaking hands, Daniel put down the gun onto the counter. The short man lowered his gun and the tall man grabbed Daniel's shoulders. In a split second, Daniel grabbed the bottle of whiskey and swung it hard onto the tall man's head. The impact was hard, it tore open the tall man's skull and his blood splashed Daniel. The short man fired at Daniel, but he ducked. The bullet hit the refrigerator. Before the short man could fire again, Daniel shoved the broken handle of the whiskey bottle in his face. The short man howled with pain and dropped the gun. Daniel grabbed it and shot him in the head. He turned around and shot the tall man. He kept shooting him till the bullets ran out. Daniel dropped the gun and slid onto the floor. He watched the blood flow from the two bodies. None of it felt very real. He pulled out his cellphone from his pocket and took a pic of the two men. He sent the pic to his undercover handler. Within seconds, his phone started ringing, but he felt too weak to pick it up. He just sat there on the floor, holding his head, until the cops came.            

[hossenna-blog]

Life in the Fast Lane

I used to live by the mantra, "Live fast, die young and leave a good looking corpse." At least, until the day I died. The day when he consequences of my actions hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks. See, I knew very early that my life wasn't going to go down the whole job, marriage, family path. I had no parents, no relations. No bonds, no restrictions. No one to shove conventions down my throat. I was free to do what I wanted, when I wanted, how I wanted. Add to that good looks and a ruthless manner, and I was set up for a movie life.

For people who find themselves in my position at eighteen years old, life can be harsh if you don't make the best moves. Act fast, take it all. Or sleep in the streets hungry. And so, I acted fast, really fast, and took it all. Money. Cash. Dough. Lots and lots of it. Fast. Gambling. Check. Betting. Check. Racing. Check. Dealing. Check. Extortion. Check. You get the gist. Life in the fast lane is crazy. And it comes with a shortened life expectancy. Hence the whole live fast, die young. You know, the whole go out with a bang, in a fucking blaze of badass glory. And leaving a pretty corpse behind, well I guess I'm just vain that way. So, imagine my surprise, when one day, while chasing some poor bloke, I get run over by a fruity fucking vespa. I go flying through the air, over the bridge, and into the canal below. It takes divers three days to fish my body out of the water. Its all bloated and rotting and so many shades of disgusting. Instead of the notoriety I hoped to leave behind one day, my legacy lives on the streets as poor Stan who was run over by a fag.            

[hossenna-blog]

Farewell

Jen. My love, my life. A thousand kisses and hugs from your mother on your birthday. May god bless you and look after you as you go through life's ups and downs. May you always smile like you do, and brighten the life of those around you. I have to go now, my baby, and you'll never see me again. I'm so sorry. Please don't cry when you read this. Be strong. Mom loves you and will always watch over you. Please look after Dad after I'm gone, he's not as strong as you are. He'll need you, now more than ever.

I so desperately want to see you before I go, but time wont permit me. Please know that I love you with all my heart and soul. You are the light of my life, my motivation and reason to live. The day I realized I was pregnant with you was the happiest day of my life. I had never believed people when they said that a child can give you the strength to over come all odds. But its true baby. You gave me and your father the strength to cross mountains and deserts and seas and storms. When I held you in my arms for the first time, I just knew that every thing was going to be alright. You brought me and Dad immense and profound strength. And joy. As I write this note, I am struggling to find the right words to describe what you mean to us. I'm truly sorry I never told you all this before. It might have lessened the suddenness of this goodbye. I don't want to leave, my love. But my past has caught up with me, and now I must pay. I don't want you to worry about me, love. I can take care of myself. But promise me that you'll look after Dad. And yourself. I have watched you grow before my eyes, and I know that you too, like me, will be alright. It might not seem like that to you, but trust me, a mother always knows. I took this photo at the camp where you were born. That's your grandmother, Iris, holding you. She just held you like that for hours and hours. She was too old to make it. It was the only time I saw your father cry. Something inside him died when she did. I have never shown this photo to him. I cannot go on writing, my baby. I must leave now. Please remember me kindly. Love, Mom            

[hossenna-blog]

That's why you do it right the first time

The cafe was a charming little place, owned by a sweet old lady. It had a quaint, old world feel to it, almost untouched by the hectic pace of the big city. It was frequented by many regulars, who were all on first name basis with the staff. On one rainy day, at the peak rush hour, a young man came running into the cafe. He looked around for a bit, then spotted an old man sitting at the back of the cafe, sipping coffee and reading a newspaper. The young man headed there and took a chair facing the old man. "Hello Derek," the old man greeted him. "Every thing went well I presume?"

Derek twisted his hands nervously, but did not say anything. The old man put down his paper and peered at Derek from behind his glasses. He arched an eyebrow. Derek quailed at the look. "We-well," Derek stammered, "no, no it did not go as well. I don't know what to say." The old man removed his glasses. "Is it all over, or is the situation still salvageable?" He sounded exasperated. Derek could imagine his patience snapping at any moment. He chose his next words carefully. "Look, I'll do anything to make it right. Just, please, tell me how I can fix it" Derek's voice was heavy with emotions. He looked at though he was disappointed at himself, more than anything. The old man sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What happened?" "Well, I did every thing exactly as you told me to. Every thing was planned and laid out. Except.. except... she wasn't alone. There were four people with her. I knew I couldn't carry on." "What exactly had you told her?" the old man asked. "I told her I had created my greatest piece, and to come by and see it." "And obviously she brought her friends over to see it." The old man sounded exasperated. "You didn't see that coming?" Derek just stared at his hands. The old man shrugged, then set aside his coffee cup. "You know," he said, folding his hands. "There are only two ways to do something. You can do it right—or you can do it over. Doing it over takes longer." Derek lowered his head in shame. "Well, now you'll have to do this the old fashioned way. Flowers, a nice restaurant, champagne, and then at the end of the meal, you go down on your knee and ask her to marry you. There's no way even you can mess this up." Derek blushed. "So what are you waiting for," the old man chided him. "Go on, go. Book a nice restaurant. Go!" The old man made a shooing motion. Derek leapt to his feet. He nodded vigorously at the old man, and then hurried out of the cafe into the rain. The old man went back to reading his paper.            

[hossenna-blog]

Homewards

The old man was the only other passenger in the bus. When the last stop came, both he and I got down. The next bus wasn't until another half hour. A half hour more, and then I'd be on my way to freedom and beyond. There were tiny plastic chairs in the bus stop, and I went and sat on the furthest one, pulling up the hood of my jacket over my head. From the far corner, I glanced at the old man, studying his profile. He looked ancient, frail and stooped. His head was bald like an egg. He was peering at the route board, studying it intently. He looked up and glanced about, then turned and looked at me. I instantly looked away. "Er, excuse me?" he addressed me, his voice timid and uncertain.

Normally, I would have ignored him, but something about his voice caught my attention. I looked at him, able to see his face now. He was crying, tears streaming down his face. The sight of him crying really unsettled me. Before I knew what I was doing, I was on my feet, walking in his direction. "Hello. Can I help you?" I asked him. Up close, the man looked really helpless, almost pitiful. His face was lined and spotted with age. Unshed tears were clinging to his eyelashes, wobbling with his harried breaths. The old man was clenching and unclenching his hands, looking pained. "Please." He hesitated several times before he spoke again. "Please. The thing is, the thing is..." he broke off, sobbing. "Please. I can't remember where I live." He looked deeply ashamed as he spoke those words, every word seemed to cause him agony. His fists were tightly clenched now, shaking and quivering. He wasn't even looking at me, he was staring at his feet. I was taken aback, both my his plight and his words. I felt my gut clench with pity. I didn't know how to react. "Well, um, okay," I spoke uncertainly, trying to string together some helpful words. "Do you have any ID cards?" He started patting his pant pockets. He pulled out an ancient looking brown wallet from his pocket and started flipping through it. He pulled out a battered looking drivers license. He held it out for me. I took it. It was a woman's ID. "It says Enid Fairchild," I told him. "Yes! Yes! That's my wife." The old man's voice was hopeful now. I smiled at him. There was a contact number on it. "Okay. I'll call her." "Oh, wait," he old man said, frowning deeply. "Wait, I remember now. She died six years ago." He looked crestfallen at this sudden re-realization. "Mr. Fairchild? Do you have any children?" "Yes. I have a son. He lives in Florida." "Do you have his contact number?" "It was in my cellphone. But I left that at home." "Oh.Okay. Look, why don't you sit down? Maybe it'll come to you in a while?" I suggested hopefully, guiding him towards a chair. He shook his head. "I've been trying to remember it since I got on the bus." Fresh tears streamed from his eyes. I glanced at my watch. Ten minutes till my bus arrived. I looked at the old man. He had buried his head in his kerchief, crying like a child. His sobs echoed in my head. "Please don't cry," I said, patting him gently on the arm. "I'll call the police. They'll be able to help you." The old man looked up at me. "They will?" "Yeah, of course. Don't worry. Look, I'm calling them now." I dialed the number. An operator picked it up. I explained the situation to him. "He says that someone will be here in twenty minutes." "Thank you, dear," the old man sobbed, grasping my hand tightly. We sat quietly, the old man's occasional sobs breaking the silence. Ten minutes later, when my bus came, I did not go. I just sat there with the old man, holding his hand. When the police arrived, I saw that my mother was in the car with them. My heart sank. The police took the old man, to his home I guess. My mother took me back to my prison.            

[hossenna-blog]

Locked, not Loaded

"Oh puh-lease, spare me the horror," said a cool metallic female voice with a slight nasal twang. The voice was emanating from the lock that the world's greatest thief was trying to unlock. "You'll never be successful. I don't know why you're even trying. Give up, go home." "Yeah, yeah," the master thief replied, his voice nonchalant. He continued at his attempts to pick the lock, using the most elaborate tools. "While you're at it, how much are you being paid to pick me?" the lock asked curiously.

The master thief mentioned an obscenely large amount. "That's it?" the lock replied in a mocking tone. "That's way less than the last guy" This caught the master thief's attention. His head snapped up, but there was no face he could face. So he contended himself by staring at the lock he held in his hands. "Someone's tried this before?" "Wasn't that clear from what I just said? God, you are slow." The master thief started to roll his eyes, but stopped when he recalled that the lock couldn't see him. "What I meant," he replied in a clipped voice, "was that someone actually managed to break into the building, get past all that security and get all the way here?" "Why do you sound surprised? You managed to do it didn't you? And you seem so thick." "I," the master thief retorted defensively, "am the world's greatest thief, okay! I have broken into the most heavily guarded vaults. Have you heard of the missing green diamond? Well, I am the one who stole that! I am the only person in this world to steal the Mars rocks from NASA. This, you, are just a walk in the garden compared to that! Just you wait and see..." "Blah, Blah! You're all talk. The last guy was able to do twice as much as you in this much time." The lock sounded at ease, almost bored. It's attitude was beginning bruise the master thief's master ego. He redoubled his efforts, and within a matter of minutes tore through another two layers of security on the lock. Another ten minutes later, he had opened the lock. It was almost too easy. "Aha! I did it. See that, huh, you stupid piece of metal." The master thief opened the door that was being locked by the lock. He strode inside and picked up the package at far end of the vault. Just then, the door swung and slammed shut trapping the master thief in a three foot thick titanium vault. There was a sharp grinding of gears as the lock reconfigured it self to secure the door. "Master thief you may be," the lock's voice penetrated through the walls, "master lock pick you most certainly are not."            

[hossenna-blog]

Model UN

The new kid had been in the school for almost a year now, but was still known as the new kid, on account of him having made no friends at all. He was an odd looking kid, stooped with thick glasses, and white blonde hair. He also had an annoying, superior look about him that made other kids want to avoid interacting with him. In fact, if it hadn't been for the teachers, they would not even look at him. The new kid was unaffected by the discomfort of the other students. He came and sat in the same spot every day, interrupting the teaches in a loud, obnoxious voice, posing inane questions about the most basic topics. So when the Principal announced that a model UN was being formed, no one was surprised that the new kid was the first one to sign up, even before the nerds.

On the day of the model UN, while the other kids were rehearsing their mannerisms, the new kid just sauntered in and took a seat right in the front row. The model UN was being presided over by the Principal. When he took his seat, all the other kids rose up, but not the new kid. This miffed the Principal, but hey, what can you do. And so the model UN came to a start. The Principal rose to make the commencement speech. "Something, Something... so the agenda for today's session is discrimination and ethnic cleansing. There is a crisis in the tiny nation of Nonexistia. The rebel forces have taken over the capital and are threatening a genocide of all the gingers. We are now going to discuss the various approaches to solve this crisis." "Death to the gingers!" the new kid shouted, interrupting the Principal mid speech. "They practice witchcraft. I say kill them all!" There was immediate pandemonium. The gingers in the model UN vehemently protested, suggesting that the new kid be kicked in the nuts. The blondes were of the opinion of staging an armed intervention. The brunettes wanted to wait and watch before committing to anything. The sole baldie sided with the new kid. The new kid, bolstered by the baldie's support, got to his feet and addressed the model UN. "Listen to me, all of you mere mortals. I am -censored censored- the former army chief of the erstwhile nation Godknowswhere. I declare that Nonexistia will have my full military support. I vow before you all here, to eliminate all the gingers from Nonexistia. If you want to avoid any bloodshed, then my demands must be met. I must be declared the supreme ruler of..." At that very moment, the new kid was hit in the head by a sniper bullet shot by one of the citizens of the erstwhile nation of Godknowswhere. He was dead before he hit the ground. All the international news agencies declared the shooting to be an act of cowardice, against a great but flawed leader of men. There were several articles praising the military prowess he had demonstrated, while conveniently ignoring the genocide of baldies in the erstwhile nation of Godknowswhere. The model UN continued as though the new kid had never been its member. They unanimously decided it would be cheaper to just ignore the problem and let the gingers die.            

[hossenna-blog]

Family Secrets

"Hello, this is Elaina Finch. I am calling about our appointment that was supposed to happen four days ago. Look, I have called you eight times already. I would appreciate an answer, even if it is not a positive one. Do call me, I will pay you for your troubles." Elaina Finch put down the phone. She took a cigarette out of a silver holder and lit it, holding it between her red lips.

She was a tall, slender woman of about fifty, who thanks to modern cosmetologists, looked no more than forty. She was the editor of a famous magazine, and owned several websites as well. She was my all means a modern icon: beautiful, successful, and famous.

Just when she seemed to have it all, she was diagnosed with small cell lung cancer. And that had made her very, very angry. She hadn't worked this hard to watch it all being taken away from her.

When her doctors informed her she would not live for more than a year or so, even after chemo, the anger was replaced with a defeated acceptance. She decided not to undergo treatment, but live out the rest of her days in stotic dignity. She reconciled with her estranged siblings, put her affairs in order, and made an iron tight will bequeathing her fortune to her sole child. And then, to leave behind some mark of her formidable life, she hired a biographer to write about her life. Alex Quinn was a pro biographer who had written biographies of several industrial icons. He had even been nominated for a prestigious award for his biography of a prominent crook. He was a darling of the publishing world, and was often seen at smart parties and art events. Elaina Finch had read about some of his work, and had decided that he would do. So several calls had been made, appointments arranged and a price negotiated and fixed upon. For two weeks, Alex Quinn had visited the Finch Estate every day, with his laptop and recorder. He and Elaina had sat in her majestic library, drinking tea and smoking, discussing about her life down to every last detail. And then, one day, he just stopped coming. He did not reply to any emails or calls, nor did he call to postpone or cancel. In fact, if Elaina's head of security was to be believed, he had disappeared from the face of the earth. His apartment was empty, his car still parked in it's spot. He had not contacted his girlfriend, his parents or even his agent. His agent did not take this seriously at first, citing Alex's artistic temperament, but after four days, even he was concerned. Elaina, of course, was furious. She had revealed some of the most private details of her life to that man, and now he had disappeared. She was not afraid of the details becoming public, that was the whole point of writing a biography. No, she feared that something sinister might have happened to him, some terrible tragedy brought upon by those secrets. She sat in the library for a long time, contemplating the possible scenarios, smoking cigarette after cigarette. She barely noticed when the door to the library opened. A young man entered the library, bearing a small tray of medicines. He went up to Elaina and put the tray on the coffee table in front of her. The young man sat on the coffee table, and took the cigarette out of Elaina's hands. "You should really stop now, mother." Elaina smiled at him affectionately. "I've had lots to think about." "Like what?" "That writer, Quinn. It seems he has disappeared." "And does that worry you?" the young man asked. "It worries me that someone close to me might have hurt him." Elaina took her son's hands in hers and looked him straight in the eye. Her son met her gaze steadily. "What makes you think that?" he asked in a soft voice, almost like a whisper. "In our last appointment, I told him about what happened between your step father and I. He seemed to think that it would create quite a scandal. Enough to push the book into the bestseller category." "Yes. I know. I met him as he was leaving. I offered him a drink. He was so excited by it. Made the whole thing seem so vulgar." The words were bitter in the young man's mouth. "He was going on and on about it. He got really drunk, you know. He asked me if I knew. Asked me how I felt about my step father. Asked me if I had ever loved him." "And?" Elaina asked, already expecting the worst. "Well, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, does it, mother?"            

[hossenna-blog]

A Violent Death

My kind of profession has always had the risk of death by violence. We all know it, understand it and accept it. It's not unusual to hear of three, four deaths a month, and that's on a low month. It's the risk we all take, because, hey, bigger the risk, greater the reward. So, now, as I lay tied up in a dingy, abandoned warehouse, all I can think of is that my time has come. I feel almost at peace, knowing that in a few moments my life will be extinguished, and I will be nothing more than a statistic associated with my job. I close my eyes and say a quiet farewell to this beautiful world. As I recall the most memorable moments of my life, I realize that I have led quite a great life, the kind of life most people can only dream of.

I hear soft footsteps. My would be killer has returned. I instinctively open my eyes to take a good look at him. He's in his early twenties, tall, thin, blonde. I realize that he's actually quite good looking, something like a Burberry model. He must be quite popular with the ladies. I suddenly envy him. He bends down in front of me, taking a closer look at my injured forehead. He's calm. He's by no means an amateur, though I can tell that he's not been in our profession for very long. He pulls out the wad of cloth stuffed into my mouth. I gasp immediately, taking a long, deep breath. He speaks softly, in an even, unemotional tone. "Do you know why you are here? Just say yes or no." "Yes," I reply, my voice hoarse from lack of moisture. "Would you like something to eat? Or some water perhaps?" he asks, no sense of urgency in his voice. "A cigarette, if you've got one?" I ask calmly. This is what they would ask for in the movies. He nods, and takes out a sleek silver case from the pocket of his jeans. He pulls out a cigarette, and carefully, almost gently, places it between my lips, and lights it with a lighter engraved with the initials D.H. He lights one for himself too. We smoke in silence. I take my sweet time smoking the cigarette, letting my body enjoy the last hit of nicotine. He finishes his cigarette before I do, and sits beside me, waiting patiently, not hurrying me. I'm starting to like this guy, I feel confident that he won't make a mess of things. Once I'm done with the cigarette, he takes out a kerchief from the breast pocket of his pristine white shirt and wipes away the ashes from my shirt. He gets up and stands in front of me, and finally draws his gun. He loads it with a single bullet, and fits the silencer in place. He points it squarely towards my forehead. I look into his eyes. They are completely devoid of any emotion. He speaks softly. "I need you to understand something before I kill you." I don't say anything, so he goes on. "This is only business. Nothing personal. Say yes, if you understand." I doubt very much that my saying no would make any difference. "Yes." I close my eyes.            

[hossenna-blog]

Thrill of the Hunt

"There is nothing that excites a hunter more, than the hunt for a fellow man. A wanted man. A powerful man. A predator, now the prey," the blond man spoke softly. The old man regarded the blond intently. He was young, probably in his early twenties. But there was something about him, something indefinable, that made the old man fear him instinctively.The old man was reminded of the child soldiers he had employed long ago in Africa. Innocent looking, pitiful. And deadly. The blond was thin and tall, and very good looking. The kind of good looks that must have attracted people to him, making his work all the more easier. For there was no doubt in the old man's mind about the blond man. He was here for him. "Who sent you?" the old man asked, taking a sip of his wine.

The blond man swirled his wine glass, a wry smile on his lips. "Henrich." The old man nodded slightly. He motioned to the maitre d' to bring another bottle of wine. He waited until the maitre d' poured wine into his glass and left. "I can pay you much more, you know." "Oh I know." The blond man raised the wine glass to his nose, smelling its rich, fruity flavor. "Do you expect to make it out of here alive?" the old man asked. It was not a threat, the old man already knew the answer. "No." The blond man was smiling more broadly now. The old man looked into the blond man's eyes. They were alive with passion. The blond was no mercenary, he was enjoying this. The old man was curious now. "May I ask your interest in this matter?" The blond took another sip of wine, and smiled at the group of women who had just taken a table near them. The ladies giggled, and waved to him. He waved back, and then turned to the old man. "None of your business." "Humor me," the old man snapped at him, irritated by the blond man's casual attitude. The blond concentrated for a moment, choosing his next words with extreme care. "Ernest Hemingway wrote 'There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter' " The old man laughed. "So you will kill me out of ennui?" "Oui," the blond replied. In a split second, he pulled out his revolver and shot the old man squarely in the forehead. The old man was dead before any one could register what had happened. As his corpse slupmed forward, the restaurant erupted in screams. Amongst the chaos, the blond man sat and sipped his wine, winking at the ladies from the next table as they fled. He was about to finish his glass of wine, when he was riddled with bullets. He fell sideways from the chair. The wine glass shattered under the weight of his dead body.