returns the rifle to the bag, pulls out a driver, moves to the tee and whacks the ball. he watches its path and whispers absently.
hooked it.
tell me about it.
oh i see. you got your individual slices of hope, dignity, confidence, self-love, justice, and harmony.
so you eat-- read it everyday?
and these pan pizzas have opened up the doors to heaven?
effective. but to tell you the truth, i've lost my passion for work.
i work alone.
you understand the psychology of the job.
no.
sometimes i am. sometimes. it's only natural.
okay.
up on the right.
if it's not there, i can't proceed. tell them.
tom. i've been waiting for an answer. i'm only in town tonight.
what's different this time than the last time? i have to be down front.
i don't bother to call anyone else because you always take care of me.
hold on a second, tom. i got my hands full here.
good. account number 3649367, transfer to account number 96-546-38739-47825. ask for mr. sanchez, tell him it's mr. duckman. if there are any problems, access file 673594638-io- 98, and look at it.
takes a step back into the shadows of the room, and raises the rifle toward window #2.
concentrating, tracks the path of the messenger, leading him left to right across the blind spot of the hotel room wall between window #2 and window #1.
withdraws from the window, and picks up the phone again and begins to break down the rifle.
sorry tom. but look, i know it's the playoffs. that's why i'm offering a thousand dollars for one seat.
just finishes packing.
well let me ask you, tom. what do i have to do to get courtside tickets for the knicks?
is closing his bag when he hears the gun-thunder.
never mind. i gotta go.
reacts, surprised to see a second shooter. he pulls himself from the window, puts away his scope, and accelerates his exit.
his two parcels in hand, exits out the side door of the hotel and walks down the street.
tell them that's not my problem. i was paid for one job-- the cyclist-- not two. see you tomorrow, marcella.
patch him through.
what do you want?
like a union?
thank you, no.
and you could be.  sort of like.  a father figure to me.
not me. so don't paw at me with your dirty little guild.
adjusts the thread minutely with one hand, and lowers the fiber-optic cable with the other.
fuck!
stuffs the apparati into an open duffel bag, and flies out of frame.
freeze! police!
it's not me.
throw that away.
don't tease me. you know what i do for a living.
tedious. i now authorize you to throw away all personal mail.
and not show it to me. ever again.
i'll pay.
i'm not happy.
he didn't.
and they want me to make up for it.
tell them that's impossible. i need my normal lead time.
would you describe their position as inflexible?
there's nothing to be done about it.
good. what else? anything interesting?
never enough.
i have scruples. next.
pulls back his jacket lapel and fits the utensil into a pocket protector that is also home to a toothbrush, emery board, tweezers, and comb. he stands and walks out of his office.
see you next week.
tell dr. oatman i'm on my way.
it's in michigan. honestly, what do i have in common with those people? or with anyone?
come on.
shouldn't you be taking notes?
it'll be depressing.
i just know.
they'll have husbands and wives and children and houses and dogs.  made themselves a part of something. and they can talk about what they do. what am i going to say? "i killed the president of paraguay with a fork."
why not. i trust you. you couldn't turn me in because of doctor-patient privilege.  and i don't want to be "withholding".  and i know where you live.
we're both professionals, oatman.
so you're saying that ulysses-- everything he said to his queen when he came back--everything was a lie? he just wanted to fuck around?
mmm.
uneasy. dispassionate. bored. it's just getting hard to go to work in a good mood. i'm starting to think i've been in the business too long. last week i did a guy younger than me.
from the back of the darkened empty church, we see him mount the altar. a priest in fact.
the church seems to be purging itself of it's pedophile.
sits in the back pew of the church, now crowded for mann. he watches the priest lift the chalice into the air, murmur a prayer, and drink from it. the priest collapses behind the altar.
it's a bull market.
anyway, that never use to happen. i was always the prodigy. now i'm just one of the guys.
if i show up at your door, chances are you did something to bring me there. i don't care about that stuff, anyway.
morality.
if i get antsy i'll kill a few small animals.
just a minute.
turns the page.
food soon.
tuna or liver?
tuna it is.
flips through the dial, pausing on rush limbaugh who waxes fascistically.
mein hero.
looking somewhere far away, beyond what is before him in the windshield.
still rapt, makes a sharp turn into a shopping district.
slows on a quaint street of cute shops. he creeps up to a storefront on hid right and stops, staring through the passenger window.
shaken from his trance by her stare, pulls back into the street and disappears.
what are you doing here?
i don't think so.
dr. oatman. dr. oatman. please pick up if you're there.  it's martin blank. it's gone. my house. it's not here. my house is gone and now there's a 7-11 here.  and that's unfortunate.  you can never go home again, dr. oatman.
but i guess you can shop there.
that's wonderful, mom.
it's a place where religious people--
jim?
it's good to see you. i'm sure you're curious about what i've been doing.
i imagine that'd be rather difficult.
they told me you're taking lithium, mom.
you have a headache?
no, i don't have one.
yeah. i guess we did.
i think i'll go see debi today.
i can't think of anything to say to her that seems appropriate given i left and never said goodbye to her.
yeah.
i have always thought about her and missed her.
mom.
hey pop.  you got off easy. the house is a 7-11. mom's a psycho- pharmacological punching bag and i murder for cash. if you were here i think you'd be proud.
pries out a wall vent, slides in the case and replaces the vent.
"oldies from the eighties?"
it's nice to see you again.
how long has it been?
ten years, i think. what i miss?
here is now there. there is here.
i'm in california most of the time. traveling a lot on business. that's about it, really.
not much else.
i'm a professional killer.
well, i'm in town for a few days, anyway.
well, i gotta go. but i'll come back.
where have i been?
i don't know exactly. i could venture a guess but it would sound like a rationalization.  i thought you know.  maybe seeing you, some friends, my house.  of course now a
--and i guess, sure, seeing you would be part of that whole equation.  i suppose the most important thing, really. i don't know. anyway, this whole thing's my therapist's idea. it's my shrink, really.
you see someone?
yeah.
dammit. never trust my instincts.
paul?
there was no money in it.
so what happened to you?
fair enough.
you too.
so when are you authorized to use deadly force?
so it's not a meaningful symbol, or anything. that badge is just the badge of your company. if i look suspicious on your customers' property-- well, under those heightened circumstances you have the authority to, ah.  to shoot me.
how did you get this job?
wow.
when my time comes, if it ever does, i want a beautiful, normal place like this.  and a wife like you.
and you'll be safe here.
debi's house.
no. you drove us here.
no.
i freaked out, joined the army, worked for the government, and went into business for myself.  i'm a professional killer.
he sells bmw's?
how could you put your hard-earned dollars into the hands of the class bully?
mein dealer.
bob.
it's me. martin blank.
okay. see you later.
stands across the street from the radio station, looking at debi in the window.  martin draws a thin rifle scope from his back pocket, and lifts it to his eye.
dejected. he puts the scope away and gets in his car.
what's done is done.
grabs the gum out of his mouth and sticks it onto the bottom of the glock .9mm he has produced from somewhere in his suit.
bolts up the cooler aisle. bursts of fire follow him, taking out each freezer door behind him.
pinned behind the slurpee machine, pauses to reload his now two glock nines. martin steals a glance to get a bead on felix and is met with a salvo that rocks the slurpee machine, spattering him with several flavors.  and that's all he can take. martin comes up blasting with both guns, but all that's left of felix is swinging doors and squealing tires.
flips the corpse back on top of the device and leaps the counter toward the doors. he grabs the shoulder or the skateboarder, who shrugs him off, annoyed--
are you going to the reunion?
that's part of it.
it's always the little things.
i'm wondering how you've been. how you are. i'd like to catch up with you. if it's possible.
well, there's not much to tell.
bad experiences.
bad people.
bad television.
what's that?
that'd be good.
i figured i could pick you up tomorrow around seven o'clock.
yes.
seven it is.
it isn't done.
i'll do it tomorrow.
it's fine.
i've looked at it.
yes. it's the same as usual. nothing remarkable about it at all.
tell them my house exploded.
okay, call them. fine. oh-- and if you could find out why they double- booked the job, and who is trying to kill me, and call me back-- that's be great.
yes.
this night, this reunion will be an important step in our relationship.
don't rush to judgement until all the facts are in.
whole-grain pancakes. and an egg- white omelette.
nothing in the omelette. nothing at all.
no harm no foul.
hard to get good help these days.
i didn't get into this business to have "associates." and i don't want to join your goddamned union. "loner-- " "loner gunman." get it? "on my own." that's the whole point. why don't you become a cop, or something. you can drink coffee in the morning.  with friends!
look, this is a one-on-one business.  every time you get to know people, bad things happen. if it'll make you feel any better, this is my last job. so what do you say we put our guns away and forget the whole damn thing.
no deal.
is that right?
nice talk, sugarmouth.
yes, i'm a pet psychiatrist. i sell couch insurance. i test-market positive thinking. i lead a weekend men's group, actually. we specialize in ritual killings. i'm hungry, are you hungry, i'm hungry, oooh, ooh. hi, i'm martin blank, remember me? i'm not married, i have no kids and i'd blow your brains out if someone paid me enough.  so how've you been? where do you stand on the issues? are you left? right? up, down, proud, shamed, blahblahblahblah--
as long as i get the laugh.
you look beautiful.
i'll just help myself to a cocktail.
looks at the legs, rolls his shoulders, and heads into the den.
good evening, mr. newberry.
how are you? how's business?
how's that?
i took the other road. i'm more of a self-reflective young lion who does business with lead-pipe cruelty and goes home to drink light beer in milky-eyes isolation. i love sports and sex and have no real relationships with anyone. and you?
why not?
i'm a professional killer.
do you want to get a drink first?
right.
i'll just be a second.
well, i didn't kill anyone, but someone tried to kill me and the guy in the middle got killed. so if i see that guy again i'm definitely going to kill him, but i won't kill anyone else. oh, except for the guy i was sent here to kill. i don't know.
saw my mom.  i'm with debi, and i'm on my way to the reunion.
out loud?
i am at home with the me. i am rooted in me, who is on this adventure.
this is me breating.
right. don't kill anyone.
shoulda brought my gun.
i'm martin blank.
don't say that.
wonderful.
whatever i can get away with.
beer.
hey, ken. how have you been?
not bad. you?
hey, bob.
that sounds pretty interesting.
those all seem kind of related.
tragedy makes you thirsty.
well.  i have to take this over to debi.
thanks.
makes his way through the upbeat crowd of well-wishers. terry emerges like an inkspot on a clean white whirt, and intercepts martin. his angst is barely under control as he sidles up to martin.
why are you here.  terry?
drafting.
don't mention it.
--yes. actually we just bought that little frank lloyd wright on pine avenue.  debi's a social worker and i mow down insurance claims at aetna--
i'm in pro-active international relations. it's a very specialized company. we execute economic investment opportunities. sort of economic clean-up.  with an emphasis on personnel. it's boring, you know, it's boring. i don't like to talk about it because i don't think what a man does necessarily reflects who he is.
i've always tried to refrain from a black-and-white moral lexicon--you know, good, bad, right, wrong--i've been more interested in the gray areas.
but that's no way to live. i guess you've got to just take the leap of faith. believe in something. fuck it.
i just have to close this one last account. i'd like to just stop now, today, but i can't.  it's a step in the right direction.
i work at kentucky fried chicken.
yes i do.
in the corporate offices.
yeah.
i sell biscuits to the southland.
it's what i do.
i sell biscuits and gravy all over the southland--
you know those horsey biscuit gravy packets? i move all of those--
sometimes we sell them to mcdonald's and just change them to special barbecue sauce.
okay.  would you rather.  commit yourself sexually to a four-by-nine cell with former president george herbert walker bush dressed as a super-model for a month, or make love to a otter on crank for a week?
--she's not dead---
wow. i have to give this some thought.
okay, then. clearly candied diller.
even though i left, you never left me. not just memory but a substance in my blood.
too junky-kitschy. deeper, deeper.
could be. the physical substance of love.
fine, bob. how are you?
really?
you could've been a contender, huh?
why would you want to hit me, bob? do you really believe that there's some stored up conflict that needs resolution between us? we don't exist. there's nothing between us. so who do you want to hit, bob? it's not me.
what do you want to do?
then express yourself, bob.
be honest.
looks back at
looks around wildly, holding felix up against the lockers. above the lockers is a plastic banner proclaiming
rips it down from the wall with his free hand, wraps it around felix, stuffs the body into his open locker, and slams it shut. he pulls off his shoes and socks, puts a sock over each hand like mittens, and wipes up the small pool of blood. he stuffs the socks into his pockets, takes off down the hall, and bangs through the doors.
pulls the doors shut, and takes off down the hall.
have you seen debi newberry?
i guess.
take care of yourself, ken. thanks for the pen.
i was catching up with bob destephano.
it didn't work out.
i have to get my head back into my work.
when you see debi, tell her i'm sorry.
dumb fucking luck.
yes.
no.
it's something i do.
professionally.
about five years now.
seriously, when i left, i joined the army and took the service exam. they found my psych results fit a certain profile. a certain "moral flexibility" would be the best way to describe it.  i was loaned out to a cia- sponsored program. it's called "mechanical operations." we sort of found each other.
i was, but no.  yes.  i was before, but now i'm not. it's irrelevant, really. the idea of governments, nations, it's mostly a public relations theory at this point, anyway. but i'll tell you something, until about five months ago, i really enjoyed my work.
then i started losing my taste for it. which usually means your time is up. but then i realized it was something entirely different.  i started getting the sneaking, dark suspicion that maybe there was.  meaning to life.
like, that there's a point? an organic connection between all living things.
a sociopath kills for no reason. i kill for money.
i was leaving.
will you come with me?
what if i come back?
don't go.
you don't understand.
"what's up doc? what's cookin'? what's up doc, are you lookin'?
i'll put things right. then i'll find you.
don't worry. i left you a little something under your desk.
well, i was hired to kill you. it's what i do, and come to think of it, i told you that, but.  okay. i'm not going to do it. get in the car.
it's either because i'm in love with your daughter, or because i have a new-found respect for life. or both. but i don't know.
it was a cost-cutting effort. they can't afford a recall.
it's not me! why does everybody think it's personal?!
i was sitting in my house on prom night wearing that goddamned rented tuxedo, a corsage in one hand, a bottle of champagne in the other. so i was just sitting there, and then the whole night flashed before my eyes, and it struck me like a bullet in the head-- i realized, finally, and for the first time, that.  i wanted to kill somebody. so i figured because i loved you so much, that'd it'd be a good idea if i didn't see you anymore. but now i'm different.
i'm in love with you. i know we can make this work!
rushes toward the island, grabbing an iron skillet off the range, and holds it up like a crossing-guard stop sign. he steps toward the hidden assassin just as the assassin rises shooting. the skillet takes two rounds before martin hammers the assassin's head with it. debi and newberry arrive in the kitchen.
i was afraid to commit to a relationship, but now i know i'm ready to make it happen.
i just need time to change.
it's not easy for me. i was raised to close off, to control my feelings.
lock the door.
i wasn't raised in a loving environment. but that's not an excuse. it's a reason.
my soul was empty--
--and it's up to me to fill it.
it's okay. it's martin the door begins to open revealing debi and newberry.
i know what i do isn't moral, per se, but if you could just look past that, you'd see a man worth loving.
reaches the top of the front stairs to find grocer heading up the stairs at him. they lift their guns at each other to fire, when they hear.
works his way toward grocer, moving with stealth toward the kitchen.
okay.
there you go. i left it blank.
rises and springs at the television, gripping it. the two bullets sail past his head.
puts all his weight and motion behind the television. martin and the television careen off of the counter toward grocer.
flies onto grocer, smashing the seventy-five pound television over his goddamn head. martin sails past the collision, landing on his back in the dining room. he rolls over to see
runs up the front stairs, retrieving the spent gun he discarded earlier, and heads into the bedroom.
debi.  will you marry me?
sitting on the front steps.
i have no illusions about the future. what is, is. we make choices. and we become the sum total of our choices. i can live with that.