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Assassin

Jon Brunette

    Billy Benson sat on the weedy hillside, looked at the well-kept courtyard below him, and loaded his powerful rifle. Through the riflescope, he saw the wood podium, metal bleachers, and stands that held light bulbs. Crosshairs brought people into focus. It would focus the target, as well. Billy could pinpoint anyone. The crowd amassed slowly, orderly, like prisoners into the jailhouse chapel. They walked neatly into thirty rows, and sat comfortably in bleachers, about to listen to the black man.
    That black male had won the position of Governor. Now, he wanted the White House. Only assassination would stop this Governor’s powerful allure. Nobody could dispute that Randolph Jackson could hypnotize audiences magically, with his thick baritone and hands brought slowly but strongly before him. Somehow, he could sway minds with words. People did what he wished, happily. Some people just possess that ability, and especially when they handle it properly. Usually, they lead with popularity, like the fraternity jock with the liquor tolerance.
    When it happens, and people believe words spoken aggressively and yet somehow gently, intelligently and emotionally, by a particular individual, the word “charismatic” finds usage. Nobody rises swiftly to lead powerful countries without likeability and charm. Wealth won’t hurt, but it won’t help. People want to hear, obey willingly, and trust leaders of wealthy nations. One man has to stand powerfully, bring worries of his hungry followers to the forefront, and seduce voters like a blonde temptress to a teenaged virgin. It looked possible with the black male on the wood stage that stretched enormously before him. Momentarily, he would stand behind the fuzzy microphone, spread his beefy arms, and speak lowly, but passionately, until he wrapped everyone in vocal blankets. Then he would likely heighten his tone, and bring the troubles of his people, and all people, to light like a brightly lit lighthouse beacon that just found millions of lost ships in choppy waters. When he spoke, wherever he spoke, hordes would cheer and yell and hold banners that announced his goal boldly. Like all presidential candidates, he wanted to hold naîve but needy minds, like those in the metal bleachers and everywhere, inside his thick dark palms.
    Minutes passed like hours. Billy watched patiently from the hillside, behind several jagged rocks. Governor Randolph Jackson, aged fifty years, in wool blue suit and silky red tie, walked proudly into the open auditorium. Sunshine glowed brightly off his baldhead. Finally, he stood by the wood podium, by a pudgy man who wore equally powerful attire. Shortly, Governor Jackson would begin the well-written speech that would insight applause, maybe laughter, but probably win the election.
    Billy didn’t like the black male, and didn’t want him for President Of The United States, unlike everyone who sat and watched. When the state had slashed budgets and cut his job in the local police unit, Billy had trouble paying his house payments. Shortly afterward, he had to relocate to a small rambler instead of his three-level home. Later, he found employment that he didn’t enjoy as deeply. When the black candidate stamped the VETO on the bill that would have allowed Billy to stay employed in his police job, Billy thumbed his nose disrespectfully at the colored hopeful to the White House, and vowed to stop the African-American politician. With Billy behind the cause, Randolph Jackson would never attain what he wanted badly. It would just take action, whatever the punishment to him or anyone.
    Still, Billy understood his new job. New paydays kept him in wool suits, not silk, but then, he had never worn silk before. He wished for millions but needed little. Yet, he couldn’t forget about Randolph Jackson, and the loss of his job in the local police force, like a child jailed by a vindictive parent. Naturally, the blackness of the local Governor didn’t harm Billy. He merely hated the politician for abuse of position. Anyhow, it became abuse of office to the steady-handed shooter, and with rifle in hand Billy wouldn’t allow it to happen to the position he wished to obtain.
    Currently, the flabby moderator in the brown suit stood at the podium, talked briskly, but with words aplenty, while his three chins bobbed, about to hand the fuzzy microphone to the black man that Billy despised intensely. It took but a moment and Governor Jackson stood proudly, with head held highly, and splayed his thick arms triumphantly. He waited without knowledge for the bullet to tear through his windpipe. Through the scope, Billy trained his bead on the shiny baldhead. One bullet alone could rip through Randolph Jackson, blow his skull into pieces that would look like cantaloupe filled with firecrackers, and kill instantly. One bullet would kill him. Aimed perfectly, it would take but one bullet.
    Before Billy acted, he heard thunder. It echoed loudly through the steady breeze. Skies shone bluely above the crowd, and looked like a beach ball turned inwardly. One lonely cloud played lazily with the humid sunshine. No cause arose for thunder. No lightning shot anywhere. Still, Billy could see that rain would fall quickly. It began with the loud bleat beyond the crowd.
    Aiming the massive rifle, Billy spotted bent branches, behind the wood podium where Randolph Jackson stood solitarily. They shook violently, above bushes and odd-shaped stones, behind the wood stage. Quickly, Billy pulled the trigger. Thunder echoed loudly through the empty blue skies. Overhead, birds flew wildly, and chirped squeakily. They vanished swiftly, before Billy sheathed the rifle. Like expected, and like his employer wanted, his shot worked perfectly.
    One bullet ripped through the skull, like a cherry bomb inside a ripe cantaloupe. It broke bones quickly. Blood splattered pinkly amid the trees. The breeze whipped softly, for the moment. With a thud, the bulky male in the pointed hood with the eyeholes toppled limply. He landed on his back, ninety yards from the podium. He landed ninety yards behind the presidential hopeful who had three Secret Service agents on him. They looked burly, reacted speedily, like well-tailored linebackers on the quarterback in the Super Bowl. Gripped in his white hands, a black rifle with scope clicked quietly on the boards. With the lengthy wood track built solidly, beyond the stage like rings around Saturn, which evaporated into the metal bleachers, the impact didn’t bend or warp boards. They shook, but didn’t break.
    Then the breeze became a fiery wind, to blow the assassin back to where he belonged, and probably from where he had come originally. When it did, it brought the white hood partially over his torso. Gold sparkled below the robe, below the hood, and the badge belonged to the local police department. It was plainly visible to Billy, looking through his riflescope. One bullet alone had stopped the murder attempt. And Billy just packed his gun like a well-trained Marine, in which he had been enrolled before the police job that the Governor had jeopardized, before Billy found employment in the SWAT Team. Now, he wore a bulletproof vest and held a rifle, with the intent to kill, like he had in the United States Marine Corp. He had just gone home.
    With static, the unit on Billy’s arm bleated. Billy said, “With the shot I had, I couldn’t miss.” The Secret Service agent stood behind the crowd on another hillside. He said, “You performed expertly, William, like we had hoped.” Through the static, Billy heard the Secret Service agent announce, “One bullet killed, professionally, like we wanted. We hired you for the SWAT Team exactly for that reason. Unlike some who apply for the Swat Team, you kill emotionlessly, like a paid assassin. It took a paid assassin, who kills legally, to kill an illegal killer properly.” Then, Billy walked down the hillside, where the Governor waited happily. In view, he nodded approvingly to Billy.
    Although it didn’t suit him, Billy smiled, tightly. Grudges held against the Governor vanished like wet dew in daytime humidity. When he landed, finally, by the wood podium, Billy told the Governor, “I will vote Randolph Jackson for POTUS after all.” He told the man who personified potential: “Despite faults, you will sit comfortably in the Oval Office, and command properly. With the White House, which stands regally between grand statues, you, Governor Randolph Jackson,” Billy said, “will blend like black coffee with white cream. When hired, you will fit perfectly, and allow politicians and voters to mix with your style. It will happen with approval by everyone in your country. After all, the United States belongs to you, to lead heroically, and you will lead heroically.” Those words came with a tight handshake to a black man whom Billy had hated previously.
    He had hated the black male for another reason than the hooded male whom Billy had killed had. Some judge not by skin, but personality. And Billy put little behind race and all behind intellect and passion. They who live tolerantly live successfully. And Billy now lived happily, finally.



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