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Sight for sore ears

 
Veronica Volt's picture
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He looked down the gun sights again toward the inn door. Yes, this was the ideal position. Here he was hidden, but he had a direct view to the door where his target would leave the inn. Who would have thought a grassy knoll would be such a perfect place for a sniper?

He removed a bullet from a jacket pocket and placed it in the gun. He then put the gun back into position and checked the sight again. Perfect.

He had pride in doing a good job, good citizen duty. One bullet, one kill each time. Customer satisfaction. His career as a sniper paid well and had given him many interesting assignments. However, this job would be the most important of all, this would be the height of his skill of a cold blooded professional killer. This was one job he could not pass, one job of extrem importance that to miss would be unbearable to think of.

Like all good assassins he had researched his target, know their appearance, know their schedules, know their routine. The name of the girl he had discovered was Greta. Greta Singer.

He shuffled into a ready but comfortable position, looked down the sight, and waited.

Two or three times the door had opened, but it was not her. An old man limping out, a man and women holding hands, a drunk staggering out and then back in again for one more drink. However finally after half hour or more, the door opened and out came the girl, blue hair, slightly crazy clothes. There was no mistake, it was her, Greta Singer. His finger began to feel the desire to pull the trigger. He continued looking down the sight at the girl, and he let her pass out of his telescopic view. Then after her it came, scampering along, the damn creeper! Wolish Wellish Wallish or whatever the damn thing was named. Even from the knoll he could hear the horrible screeching noise, like fork against plate, fingernails across a table top. Since she had began to stay in the building next door, he would hear that horrible screech every night, all night, without any pause, without end. Sleep was important, especially for a sniper. He could not continue to work from these inhuman conditions. He needed his sleep. It was vital for him to get good sleep to ensure his best performance for his job. How could he work after hearing that horrible screeching all night? Every night! Now was the moment, now he would end that horrible noise and tonight he would have a night of good relaxing wonderful refreshing sleep.

He was about to pull the trigger when he felt the first one. On his leg. 'What the...' he muttered. Then he felt the weight of another on his back. His eye slipped from the sights, his finger relaxed from the trigger. He tried to look behind his shoulder but there was too much weight now, pushing him down, stopping him from moving. It was then he heard their screeches, three, four, perhaps five of them all screeching together, that horrible, terrible, annoying screeching noise. Then the screeching suddenly stopped and the creepers sank their fangs into him.

From the Inn porch Greta did not hear the screams from the grassy knoll, only the screeching of Wellish her pet creeper. 'Time to go back and sleep,' she said. She walked down the inn porch steps and down the street with the creeper scampering after her.

Comments

Joe Spivey's picture

((... Why haven't I commented yet? Because I'm trying to decide who I feel sorry for. Shush.

Stick with me kid and you'll be farting through silk.

Hyle Troy's picture

(( crafty crustaceans counter cunning killer, clever. !

I would rather die peacefully in my sleep, like Grandad, than screaming, like his passengers

Lance Striker's picture

(( I relate to this so hard.

Lonely are the brave...



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