Jaded Poet watched this much interest. He stared through the binoculars, intent to read the lips of those talking inside. He could make out little from their movements, but he was able to get that Primus had left his team to join up with this group here.
Poet began to analyze what this meant. What it meant for this group here, what it meant for the Power Pack, and what it meant for The Agency, and what it meant for him.
Poet put down the binoculars and looked at his watch. Three hours he had spent watching the duplex. Three hours that would bring considerable pay, but this new development with Primus would bring even more.
Poet smiled. The Agency sure did love him. He was the only independent hitman they ever brought on as a full member. He had Lichton to thank for that.
Poet put his binoculars away and brought out his cell phone and his gun. He had to call Lichton to report in, but he got out his gun just in case.
Poet knew he always had to be ready for a kill, even when he was doing the most simple of tasks.
Two Years Ago
Woman: I just love your work.
Jaded Poet: Thank you.
Jaded Poet singed his name in her book and handed it back to her. She looked at it with a smile on her face and left.
Jaded Poet: Next please.
Jaded Poet, aka James Phearson, was at his book singing. His third published collection of poetry had hit the shelves and he was touring the book stores.
He hated autograph sessions.
There was nothing worse than to hear the most simple minded people recite his poetry. And they did it poorly. Always messing up lines, never catching the right tone, and never fully understanding the meaning. The only reason they read his work is because they wanted to appear sophisticated. All because he was Time's Poet Of The Year back in 2002. He had published his first collection that year and had gained a reputation of "being able to paint the most complicated of human emotions with his words". He had a strong fan following ever since.
Of course, he also had to deal with the Questions. The Questions were all the same. "What inspires you?" "How do you write this stuff?" "Who's your favorite poet?" "What's your favorite poem you wrote?"
He answers them, of course. Always with a smile on his face. And sometimes it's not a false smile. If they knew the answer to what inspires him, they would run away screaming.
The next fan came up and placed his copy of the book in front of Poet.
Jaded Poet: And who do I make this out?
The fan: To Brad Arliss. It's going to be a surprise to him. If you would, please write out "To Brad Arliss, Happy Birthday over there on 1623 Maple Street".
Jaded Poet looked up at the man.
Jaded Poet: Will do.
Poet handed the book back to him and continued the session for the next hour.
The next day Jaded Poet and the two lackey his publishers assigned to him on this tour had packed up their things and left town.
That night they had stopped at a motel to catch some rest.
Jaded Poet: You guys good?
Lackey 1: Yes. Mr. Phearson.
Jaded Poet: Good. I'm going to go out for a drive. I'll be gone for a couple hours. I'll call you on your cells if I get into trouble.
Lackey 2: What are you going out for?
Jaded Poet: Inspiration.
Jaded Poet had drove back into town. He had parked his car on the 1400 block of Maple Street, got out and began to walk.
He strolled right up to 1623 and knocked on the door.
A man answered. He looked tired and surprised.
The Man: It's a little too late to be knocking on people's doors, don't you agree?
Jaded Poet: Just because a visitor makes his arrival at your door, it doesn't mean you have to answer. Alas, you did, so you must be a lonely man who welcomes all company at even the most odd of hours. Is that accurate, Mr. Brad Arliss?
The man blinked his eyes in surprise and the sound of his name.
Brad: Well, since you know my name, you might give me the pleasure of knowing yours.
Jaded Poet: My name is a gift best presented to those who have invited me into the comfort of their homes.
Brad: In that case, come on in.
Jaded Poet entered Brad's house and took a look around. He was able to surmise that Mr. Arliss did indeed live alone.
Jaded Poet: It looks as those my speculation of your living environment was correct.
Brad: I guess. Now how about you give me your name and and the reason you are here.
Jaded Poet: For all intents and purposes, my name at this particular juncture in both of our lives shall remain anonymous. My reason for being here is simple: I was sent here.
Brad: To do what?
Jaded Poet: To give you this.
Poet handed Brad a piece of paper.
Brad: And what am I supposed to do with this?
Jaded Poet: Read it.
Brad: Why?
Jaded Poet smiled and took a gun out of his inner coat pocket.
Jaded Poet: Because everybody deserves to say something beautiful before they die.
Brad stared at the gun. The paper trembling in his hands.
Jaded Poet: It's very simple Brad. You read the poem there, out loud, and I kill you swiftly and with no pain. You don't read the poem, then you make this operation very difficult. Not for me, but for yourself. The end result will be the same. You will die.
Brad: It's them, ain't it? They sent you here.
Jaded Poet: That's not for me to say Brad. It doesn't matter anymore. The only thing that matters is that you have one last chance to introduce something magnificent into your life before die.
Brad began to read the poem.
Brad: "As I end my exasperated voyage, I am content with shedding all of this foliage. The growth of pain and misery, shall be nothing but a history. And so it was, as the day I was born, I shall die clean, no longer tainted and worn" Nice fucking poem.
Jaded Poet produced a dagger out of his sleeve and lunged at Brad, slicing his throat.
Brad collapsed to the floor clutching his throat, looking at Poet with betrayed eyes.
Jaded Poet: I didn't appreciate your tone or the snide comment.
Jaded Poet pulled a cloth out of his pocket, wiped the blood off of the dagger and placed it back into the sheath hidden in his sleeve.
As Brad let out his last breath, Poet walked out, went back to his car, and drove back to the motel.
One Month Later
Jaded Poet was relaxing in his home when he received a call from his publishing agent, Maria
Maria: Guess what James! I got more exciting news!
Jaded Poet: That's great Maria. What is it?
Maria: That anonymous fan of your has agreed to pay for more of your original drafts. And at the same price as the other ones! If this guy keeps buying more, you could retire at a very early age!
Jaded Poet: Thanks for the good news Maria.
Maria: It's my pleasure. I can't wait to read your next set. Bye!
Poet hung the phone up and sighed. If she only knew.
The death of Brad Arliss had gave Poet exactly what he was looking for. Inspiration. He was already well into writing one of his famous free verse poems when someone began knocking on his door.
Jaded Poet: 'Tis some visitor, tapping at my chamber door. Only this and nothing more.
Poet got up from his writing desk and called out to the person behind the door.
Jaded Poet: How may I help you?
The person behind the door spoke: My name is Ted Lichton. I'm from The Agency.
Poet immediately reached for his gun and tucked it into his back pocket. He opened the door.
Lichton: Thank you for letting me in. We need to talk.
Poet pulled out the gun.
Lichton looked at it calmly.
Lichton: Please don't get the wrong idea, Mr. Phearson. I am not here for insidious reasons. I am here to offer you an invitation.
Jaded Poet put the gun away.
Jaded Poet: This is very unexpected. I was under the impression that I would never have direct contact with anyone from your organization.
Lichton: That was plan. But you have many people in The Agency looking your way. Take your last month's kill for example. You did leave a bit of a bloody mess, but once again, no sounds were heard from the neighbors and no one saw a thing. That was the tenth kill you have done for us and the results have always been the same.
Jaded Poet: Thank you.
Lichton: I'm what you would call a headhunter. I seek out those who would be best suited to work for us. I found you. I'll admit, your prices were steep, but I convinced my bosses to get in contact with you. Therefor your performance has also reflected back on me. I have been promoted.
Jaded Poet: Congratulations. We should celebrate this splendid occasion.
Lichton: Wonderful idea.
Poet and Lichton went into the kitchen. Poet brought out a glass of champagne and poured two glasses.
Jaded Poet: A toast. To The Agency.
Lichton: To The Agency.
The drank the champagne and Lichton motioned to the kitchen table.
Lichton: Let's have a seat.
They sat down and Lichton brought out a notebook he had in his tote bag.
Lichton: Telling you about my promotion is now the only reason I'm here.
Jaded Poet: No?
Lichton: No. I'm here to interview you.
Lichton smiled as he said interview. It did not go unnoticed by Poet.
Jaded Poet: Is this for The Agency Times?
Lichton laughed.
Lichton: No. This is for my bosses. They want an in depth profile on you.
Jaded Poet: My I inquire why?
Lichton: Of course. We have been on the lookout for a special enforcer. A cleaner, if you will. Someone who can take care of certain messes we can't deal with normally.
Jaded Poet: And I am up for this job.
Lichton: Yes. I have nominated you. I have great confidence in you, but they need testaments of all candidates. So, let's begin shall we?
Poet nodded.
Lichton: When did you first learn you were capable of killing?
Poet's eyes searched over Lichton for a few seconds then became contemplative. Poet sat still for a few seconds than answered.
Jaded Poet: The first time I killed a man.
Lichton: Touché. What drove you to kill him?
Jaded Poet: He asked me to.
Lichton was looking down into his notebook as he was writing, but glanced up at Poet's answer.
Lichton: He asked you to?
Jaded Poet: That's correct.
Lichton: Why?
Jaded Poet: He was my neighbor. I was 15 at the time. He stopped by house one afternoon to ask me a favor. He handed me a $50 bill and gave me instructions. Turns out, that 50 was the last money he had. He had gambled most of his savings away, including his daughter's trust fund. He gave me the last of his money to burn his house down. With him in it. We wanted it to look like an arson had struck him while he was asleep. I figured out a way to make it look like an accident. His wife and daughter collected on his insurance and received a new house. No one suspected foul play.
Lichton: So, you killed a man so his family would benefit. Now you are killing strangers for money. Why the transition?
Jaded Poet: As I watched his house burn. I began to think. I thought about his wife and daughter and their loss. I focused on their pain of losing this man they loved over something so foolish. And I considered in my own part in their loss. I could have talked him out of it, but I didn't. I adopted his misery as my own. I now worried about his family. I wrote my first poem that night, pouring my torment onto page. I fell in love with what I wrote and never once regretted what I did to that family afterwards. I tried writing more poems, but none of them lived up to the one I wrote after the fire.
Lichton was writing all of this down. Poet took a drink and continued his story.
Jaded Poet: I dreaded that whatever poetic inspiration I had in that one day was a fluke. Of course, I realized that my preoccupation with the family's suffering is what led to my poetic conception. I needed more. I had to create more misery in order for my talent to produce. I went hunting. Not animals though. I found a bum. He had set up home underneath a railroad bridge that passed over a creek. Knowing he had no family to care for him, I had to figure out a way to feel sorry for his death. So, I filled him up with hope. I gave him some food and drink and told him a tale. One where I was going to be able to find him a real home, get him started on a well paying job, and get his life back on track. The promise of a better life had filled his eyes. I then took out a knife and watched that hope drain out of his eyes. I stabbed him in the side first, to make sure he was aware of my deception before I killed him. The look of betrayal never left his eyes. The poem I wrote that night is the one that opens my first published collection.
Lichton had stopped writing half way through. He had never heard of such a thing. In all of his years working for The Agency, he had never been as stunned as he was now.
He collected himself and finished writing in the notebook. He looked back up at Poet.
Lichton: So, let me get this clear. You kill people so you can write your poems.
Jaded Poet: That is one way of looking at it. I kill people to feel pain and I release that pain through words.
Lichton: So, it's the pain that makes you write?
Jaded Poet: A poet is nothing without his suffering.
Lichton: Fair enough. So, why become a hitman?
Poet smiled at this.
Jaded Poet: If I'm going to kill people, I might as well get paid for it.
Lichton continued his interview for another two hours.
Lichton: Ok, that should wrap it up. You'll be going back on your book singing tour this month right?
Jaded Poet: That's the plan.
Lichton: Excellent. We'll have more work for you.
Lichton gathered his thing. Poet walked him to the door.
Lichton: I hope they pick you. I think you'd be a great asset for The Agency.
Jaded Poet: Thank you. Have a good night Mr. Lichton.
Lichton: You too. And please, call me Ted.
Poet nodded and Lichton left.
Poet stood there, wondering what he was getting himself into. He decided to dismiss the thoughts for now, and began to concentrate on preparation for the rest of his book tour.
One Week Later.
Poet was in a new town on his touring stops. There usually was a reason for a new town to pop up on his map. He was going to have another target there.
And like most of the towns on his book tour, this one was full of idiots on the bandwagon.
Emo Fan: Your poems, like, are the words my soul has been tryin to say for the longest time now. That one poem you wrote, "In The Mirror". How'd that go? "The road your on is near the end. The long journey is yours to defend. The answer you're seeking is near. Your worst enemy is the mirror." That stuff is awesome. I cried. Thank you.
Jaded Poet: You're welcome.
Poet signed his book and the emo kid left. Poet hoped the kid was as good at cutting his wrists as he was at butchering that poem.
The next person came up to the table. He sat a book down in front of Poet.
Jaded Poet: And who do I make this out to?
The Fan: Derrick Reynolds. It's a gift. Please sign it, "Happy Anniversary Derrick. Have another great 15 years of marriage there on 1919 Liberty Street.
Jaded Poet: Will do. Thanks for reading.
Poet handed the book back and let out a sigh of relief. That part was over, now he had to finish pleasing the chumps and he'd be out of the hell hole.
Jaded Poet: Next please.
As Poet called that out, he glanced out of the book store window to see his messenger get into a car. The next fan had began reading a line of his poetry. It was a female voice, and the way she was reciting grabbed his attention.
The Woman: "A smile, a most deadly smile sits upon an innocent face. Trust is not something I give to one with such grace. /Staring at each other for a while, time goes by without a trace. Is dying a better option than to live? You say you just made your case. /The sounds are getting louder, it's time for a change of pace. We come together you and I and we share warm embrace./ Turning ourselves into powder, to see which one wins the race. You took our love and let it die, still keeping your innocent face."
Jaded Poet looked up at the woman. The woman was moderately attractive. Not a real knockout, but cute in her own way. But that didn't matter to Poet. The way she had recited his poetry made her the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She had set her book down for Poet to sign. It was "A Jaded Poet".
Jaded Poet: "Innocent Face". Nobody has ever recited that one to me. Whom do I make this out to?
The Woman: Emily Page.
Jaded Poet: Why Innocent Face?
Emily: The woman in the poem, you seem to make her out to be a woman who has scorned you, yet tries to hide it unsuccessfully.
Jaded Poet: Go on.
Emily: Yet you are the guilty one in the relationship. You are the one that screwed up and she still feels love and sympathy for you, but decided to end it for the better. Then you both have one final love making session, and you blame her the whole time. "Is dying a better option than to live". That's her ending the relationship. The relationship is dying and it's for the good. "The sounds are getting louder" That's you two arguing. "Turning ourselves into powder, to see which one wins the race". That's you two making love. But not really. It's her way of saying goodbye and your way of saying "stay". The conflict is grinding you both up into pieces.
Jaded Poet: Excellent. You are the first one to properly analyze that one.
Jaded Poet stood up and bowed. Emily blushed.
Emily: Thanks.
Jaded Poet: I feel as though I owe you something. Such a rare treat has never manifested before me. Shall I be so bold as to take you out to a dinner?
Emily was speechless.
Jaded Poet: The whole thing will be my treat, of course.
Emily: Uh, yeah, that'd be great.
Jaded Poet: Very well. Shall we meet here at say, 8 PM tomorrow and go from there.
Emily: It's a date.
Poet smiled and bowed again. The rest of the autograph session breezed by.
The Next Day.
Poet was finished getting dressed in his motel room. He walked over to the room where the lackeys were staying. He knocked and entered.
Jaded Poet: I will be taking a leave tonight gentlemen.
Lackey 1: Off to get more inspiration?
Poet smiled.
Jaded Poet: Yes. And I have a date.
The lackeys gasped.
Lackey 2: Mr. Phearson, it's about time you get some tail.
Jaded Poet: Thank you. And don't wait up for me.
The lackeys laughed.
Poet left the motel at 6 0'clock. He got into his car and pulled a suitcase out of the back. In it was a disguise. He drove around the town for a few minutes, found a secluded spot, and changed into the disguise.
He then drove his car to a nearby laundromat. He parked it, got out, and walked two blocks to a supermarket.
When the coast was clear, he hot wired a Buick Century and drove to 1919 Liberty Street.
He arrived in front of the house at 6:45.
Poet walked up to the house and knocked on the door. Derrick Reynolds answered.
Derrick: Who's there?
Poet cleared in voice and began to talk with a southern accent, masking his real voice.
Jaded Poet: Mister Reynolds, I am the Clerk of the Court and I am here to issue you subpoena.
Derrick opened the door angrily.
Derrick: What the hell! It's that fucking bitch of an ex-wife of mine, isn't it?
Jaded Poet: Mister Reynolds, I don't know about any of that, all I know is I'm here to give you this message. May I step inside for just one quick second?
Derrick: Just give me the subpoena and get the fuck out of here.
Jaded Poet: Mister Reynolds, we have another matter to discuss and it's a bit cold out here, so if you wouldn't mind just letting me in for a few and then I can be on my way.
Derrick stepped back from the door.
Derrick: Be my guest.
Poet entered the house and did a quick survey.
Derrick: So, what's up?
Jaded Poet: You said you have an ex-wife. Did you and she have any children?
Derrick: Yeah, we have a 12 year old son.
Jaded Poet: And where is the child now?
Derrick: Up in his room doing his homework.
Jaded Poet smiled. He was able to appreciate pain more when it dealt with a child.
Derrick: Does my kid have something to do with this?
Jaded Poet: Not yet.
Derrick looked at Poet, puzzled.
Derrick: Well, give me that damned subpoena. I want to read it.
Poet handed Derrick the paper in his hand.
Derrick scanned over it.
Derrick: This is a poem.
Jaded Poet: Yes it is. Why don't you read it out loud.
Derrick gave Poet a disgusted look and threw the paper to the ground.
Derrick: No more fucking games. Tell me what you are doing here.
Derrick pulled out a gun.
Poet anticipated this. He began to talk in his Poetic voice
Jaded Poet: The abnegation of your undertaking appears to be a forfeiture of that you hold dear.
Poet's words confused Derrick, so much that he dropped his guard for a second.
And in that second, Poet made his move.
Poet grabbed an ashtray that was near his hand and hurled it at Derrick. It hit Derrick in the hand, causing him to drop the gun. Derrick bent down to retrieve it.
Poet rammed himself into Derrick, causing them both to fall backwards. Poet picked himself up immediately. Derrick lunged at Poet's legs. Poet jumped and kicked Derrick in the face. Derrick's nose ruptured. As the blood ran down his face, Derrick brought his attention to his nose. Poet removed a knife. Neither of them saw Derrick's son, Rob, come down the stairs.
Rob: Dad, what's going on?
Derrick turned at the sound of his son's voice.
Derrick: Nothing Robbie. Run back up stairs.
Rob: You're bleeding dad.
Derrick: I know son. Don't worry.
Derrick looked at Poet.
Derrick: Please. Not my son. Leave him alone.
Jaded Poet: I have no business with your son. Just you and you alone.
Derrick: Fine. But not in front of him.
Jaded Poet: That's up to you.
Poet retrieved the poem Derrick had thrown to floor. He handed it back to him.
Jaded Poet: Read it.
Derrick: No. I'd rather my son watch me die than to read that garbage.
Jaded Poet: So be it.
Poet quickly stabbed Derrick in both lungs, thorax, and stomach.
Jaded Poet: This is going to be painful.
Poet grabbed Derrick's gun and pointed it at Rob.
Jaded Poet: Don't move. Watch.
Derrick's death took longer than expected. After Derrick died, Poet spoke to Rob.
Jaded Poet: I am going to leave now. Wait ten minutes then call the cops. I'll be watching. If you call them any earlier, I will kill you. Ok?
Rob stared at the body of his father and nodded.
Poet left, got in the Buick and drove three blocks away from the laundromat in a back alley.
He wiped the Buick out, hid behind some bushes, changed back into his original clothes and took of his disguise. He then walked back to his car.
It was 7:40.
At 8 o'clock, he pulled up in front of the book store.
Emily greeted him.
Emily: Right on time.
Jaded Poet: I do my best to be punctual.
Poet had a sly grin on his face.
Emily: You look like the cat that swallowed the canary.
Jaded Poet: Merely an appetizer. What restaurant shall we go to?
Emily: How about Ted's?
Jaded Poet: Then we shall dine there.
The drove to Ted's Fine Dining Steakhouse.
They got a table and began their date.
Jaded Poet: So, why my poetry?
Emily smiled. She had been infatuated with man in front of her ever since she picked up his first poetry collection. She could hardly believe she was now sitting here having dinner with him.
Emily: Are you implying you are the only poet I read?
Jaded Poet: Of course not. But why read my poetry?
Emily: It's cheaper than buying sleeping pills all the time.
Poet laughed. The majority of his fans spent their time trying to kiss his ass. This one was relaxed, making jokes, and having a good time. Poet could read her body language and knew she liked more than just his poetry.
Jaded Poet: So, my poems are the cure for insomnia. Won't the medical world be pleased?
Emily laughed.
Emily: No, your poems are the cause of insomnia. I spent a whole night reading that first collection. The same with other ones.
Jaded Poet: All night reading? You must have gotten one hell of a headache.
Emily: Please. You must have me mistaken for one of those morons who claim to be one of your fans so they can look cool to their buddies.
Poet couldn't hide a smile any longer.
Jaded Poet: You don't know how long I have waited for somebody to recognize that, other than myself.
Emily: I heard the morons chatter away, talking about your poetry as though they knew it forwards and backwards. The only guy who didn't talk was the one in front of me. But I heard him say it was a gift to somebody, so I guess he wasn't a fan.
Poet started to tense up at this, but relaxed when he realized Emily didn't hear the name.
Jaded Poet: So, I'm sure you know quite a bit about me. My biography is on the dust jacket after all. I want to know about you.
Emily: There's not much really. I'm probably the most boring girl you'll ever meet.
Jaded Poet: I write poems. My life isn't full of excitement. Your life might seem like the Adventures of Indiana Jones next to mine.
Emily blushed once again.
Emily: I lived here all my life. I work at Starbucks. I have two brothers and no sisters. My mom was always there for us, my dad spent of the time on the road. He was a negotiator. Not the cop kind, but a busisness one. When he was home, I was daddy's little girl. He spend time with the boys, playing catch and doing all the father stuff. But with me, he would read me bed time stories. Not the usual ones, but he would tell me about his business trips and make everyone seem like a fantasy character. He was really good at that. He died a few years ago.
Jaded Poet: I'm sorry to hear that.
Emily: Thank you. What about your family?
Jaded Poet: Only child. My parents were both factory workers. They're retired now.
Emily: That's all.
Jaded Poet: I told my story would be more boring than what you believed yours to be.
Emily: I think you're hiding something.
Jaded Poet: Mayhap I am. But would you rather have be bring everything out in the open tonight or reveal more as we go along?
Emily: So, are you asking me out to another date?
Jaded Poet: I have one more stop on the book tour to go to. that city west of here, I forget the name, but after that, I'm free. And I would like to celebrate the end of my tour with another dinner with you.
Emily: I can hardly wait.
They continued with their date for another hour, talking about their favorite poets. After dinner, they walked out to their cars.
Emily: So, when you are done with the tour, stop by my house and I'll fix you dinner.
Jaded Poet: Sounds wonderful.
Emily gave him her address and left home. Poet went back to the hotel.
Lackey 1: Hey boss, welcome back. How was the date?
Jaded Poet: Inspiring.
Poet sat down at the desk in his room. He took out his pencil and began to write. The pain of the boy witnessing his father's death was not what was driving his hand. The only thing producing the poetry this time was the thought of Emily.
Jaded Poet had found a muse.
The next day they had set up the autograph booth at the final stop. It was a convention. Poet hated these the most. They lasted forever.
In between autographs, Poet would constantly look at his watch, time seemed to be moving slower. And the questions kept getting repetitive and more stupid.
Fat Fan: When the next book coming out James?
Thin Fan: Where's Stephen King's booth? Is he even here?
Old Lady Fan: My granddaughter just loves your poems. She's always trying to get me to read them, but my eyes these days, I can only read those books that have the big letters. They don't have your book in the big letters. Can you out one out in the big letters?
Another Emo Fan: Hey. I wrote some poetry too. Why don't you read it and tell me what you think.
Hours went by.
He looked at his watch. one lats time. Ten minutes till the event was over. Poet was never more relieved.
The last fan walked up to his booth and sat a book down in front of him.
Jaded Poet: Who do I make this out to?
The Fan: To Emily Page. It's a present. Could you write "To Emily. Have a Happy Birthday there on 2348 Maple drive"?
Poet returned to his motel room, livid.
He called up his agent, Maria. She answered the phone in her usually chirpy voice.
Maria: James, what can I do for you.
Jaded Poet: Get me Lichton.
Maria: Who?
Poet became pissed.
Jaded Poet: Don't play dumb with me Maria. You know goddamn well I wasn't born yesterday. I know you work for them, it wasn't a big fucking secret. So, you get that son of a bitch Lichton for me right now!
For a few seconds, there was no answer. Then Maria spoke, in a much flatter tone.
Maria: Ok James. I'll try to reach him.
Maria hung up the phone. Poet sat on the edge of his bed, and stared.
Three hours later, Lichton showed up at Poet's door.
Lichton entered. Poet waited for an answer.
Lichton: There's no use in bullshitting you. We know you had a date with her.
Jaded Poet: Is this a test? To see if I'm worthy to be your enforcer?
Lichton: Yes and no. She's been on our list for a few years now. She never represented a real threat, until now.
Jaded Poet: I think you better elaborate.
Lichton: I will. Her father worked for us. He was loyal, never told anybody what he was doing for us. Or so we thought. He had a death bed confession he made to his old partner, who was there by his side. He confessed that he told his daughter stories of what he did. He said he mentioned real names and sand kept some details in. He told this to his partner in confidence. Which his partner then told us. His loyalties lies with The Agency, not his friend. That's something we value, James. Loyalty.
Jaded Poet: Why me?
Lichton: I picked you. It was supposed to be passed on to someone else. You already had a name for that town.
Jaded Poet: What makes you think I'm going to kill her?
Lichton: She is a target. If you don't kill her, somebody else will. And trust me, not all of our killers have poetic hearts. This way, you can choose the best way for her to be eliminated. Unless...
Jaded Poet: Unless what?
Lichton: Well, this is just between you and me. If you can figure out a way to make her "gone" so that she's not on The Agency's radar anymore, than by all means, do it.
Poet looked at Lichton. Lichton gave no indication that he was lying about that possibility.
Jaded Poet: Make her "gone".
Lichton: Yes, James. Whatever way you feel is best for everybody.
Lichton left the room. Poet sat on the edge of the bed the rest of the night.
The Next Day.
Poet arrived at Emily's house. She saw him pull up and greeted him at the door.
Emily: I'm so glad you came!
Jaded Poet: Me too.
Emily could tell there was something off.
Emily: What's wrong?
Jaded Poet: I'm just tired. Little sleep.
Emily: Me too. I'm making some tuna noodle casserole? You like?
Jaded Poet: One of my favorites.
Emily gave Poet a quick tour of her house. She brought him to the small dining room and went into the kitchen to check on the food.
Poet removed a piece of paper from his pocket, glanced over it and stuffed it back in.
Emily came out minutes late, with the casserole.
Emily: It came out all right. I hope it's good.
Jaded Poet: I'm sure it will be. So, been bragging to your friends that you're going out with a world renowned poet?
Emily laughed.
Emily: Not yet, you're my little secret. It seems whenever I brag about things, they have a tendency to fall apart. I don't want this to fall apart.
Poet nodded.
Emily: Ok, all we need is the wine now. Let me go get it.
Jaded Poet: Allow me.
Emily: Go ahead.
Poet walked into the kitchen and made two glasses. He brought them out and sat back down.
Jaded Poet: Before we begin, I want to ask you a question.
Emily: What is it?
Jaded Poet: Is there anything keeping you in this town?
Emily: Not really. My family is still here. My mom and brothers. But I hardly visit them any more as it is. Why?
Poet hesitated.
Jaded Poet: If I were to leave tomorrow, to go to Europe or something. Would you come with me?
Emily was shocked at the question.
Emily: James, we really don't know each other that well. Yeah, I've read your poetry sand know some facts about you, but you may be someone completely different behind your own doors. And even if that's not the case, you may find out I'm not everything you think I am.
Jaded Poet: That ok. Just a silly thought in my head. Don't worry about it.
They sat there in silence for a few moments, neither of them moving. Finally, Emily spoke.
Emily: Screw it. Let's do it.
Jaded Poet: What?
Emily: Yeah. Let's go. This is the kind of fairy tales girls dream about when they are young. The young dashing poet comes in and scoops of the girl and takes her to places she's never been.
Jaded Poet: Girls dream of poets?
Emily: Yes. So yeah, let's do it.
Emily picked up her glass.
Emily: A toast to Europe.
Jaded Poet: Wait a second, I have something else.
Emily; What is it?
Jaded Poet: I wrote you a poem.
Poet took the paper back out of his pocket and handed it to her. She unfolded it and began to read it to herself.
Jaded Poet: Read it out loud. I love hearing you read my poetry.
Emily: Ok. "Everything just disappears. Darkness becomes it's disguise. I see a window into paradise, while I am looking through your eyes./I manage to forget all of my fears. The thought of pain is a bundle of lies. My feelings are wonderful and nice, because I am looking through your eyes./ So much emotion, it brings me to tears. Time stands still, and the pain just dies. To find true happiness, I need no advice. All I do, is look through your eyes.
Emily read the poem to herself again. She began to tear up.
Emily: I love this. Thank you. It's not like your other poems. This one is really beautiful.
Jaded Poet: I'm glad you think so.
He held up his glass and so did she. They both took a drink.
Emily's head fell to the table, making a sickening thud. The life in her was gone.
Poet sat there for what seemed like an eternity. Finally he got up. He took his dinner plate and both glasses to the kitchen, cleaned them and placed them back into their cabinets.
He collected his poem, and placed it back into pocket.
Jaded Poet: Goodbye Emily.
Poet left the house.
He would never go on a book tour again. Claiming he was burnt out on poetry, he took an early retirement from writing and left the spotlight that had been on him since his poetry first became famous.
Present Day.
Jaded Poet reached for his phone and called Lichton.
Jaded Poet: A situation has risen here sir.
Lichton: What is it?
Jaded Poet: The Pack member called Primus has allied himself with our group here.
Lichton: Interesting. Ok, we'll pool our info and see where we go from here. Come back to base Poet.
Jaded Poet: On my way.
Lichton hung up the phone. He was not alone in his office. Agent Travis was with him.
Travis: What's going on?
Lichton: Seems Primus may have switched sides.
Travis: Could be a trick. Pretending to be a defector just to get info.
Lichton: Could be, but I doubt it. Not the Power Pack's style. I'll wait and see what Poet has to say about all of this.
Travis: Why do you trust him so much? Do you think he is really that loyal to The Agency?
Lichton: No, far from it. He loyalties lies with one thing. Pain. Once, bringing pain to others is what gave him his drive. then he discovered that bringing pain onto himself was even better. He hates working for us, which is exactly why he'll keep working for us.
Travis: That makes no sense.
Lichton smiled.
Lichton: A poet is nothing without his suffering.
The End
