An assassin, by and large, does not know hundreds of different ways to kill people - despite what the stories would have you believe. That stuff is just marketing hype. At most, an assassin knows up to a hundred, max. There just isn't really enough time in a day to study all these things. We, like everyone else, have bills to pay, meals to eat, lives to live. And to be honest, the art of killing someone isn't terribly interesting. There might be psychopaths out there arranging artful deaths and religious nuts involved in grotesque rituals, but we're not like that. We're the workaday, blue-collar, trash men of society.
Sure, we need to be skilled. Being a professional assumes at least a certain level of technical competence. And sure, the more skills you have, the more useful and employable you are. In general though, a pro sticks to a few dozen tried and true methods. These vary by assassin, but in general they're simple and reliable. We're not dilettante killers and so we're not playing games. We're making a living.
Anyways, that was what I was thinking as I watched this joker blow his hit. He definitely was not a pro. His timing was execrable , his angle of approach a disgrace, and he was trying to use some goofy razzle-dazzle to distract his target. He was trying to do too much. Meanwhile, everything about his stance screamed, "I'm psyching myself up to nail you." Bystanders were subconsciously edging away from him. Fucking amateur. He was as obvious as a fart in a pricey salon. I was tempted to go put him down then and there; improve the industry's image if you will.
If I caught baseballs for a living rather than offing people, I'd be a utility infielder. I don't specialize in anything, but give me a time frame and a cash amount and if I accept, then some blot in your personal world is quietly removed. I prefer a sharp knife, a calm walk, and several changes of clothes, but I've been known to work in other ways.
The target and one of his bodyguards was down, but even from up here in the cheap seats, I could tell that the Honorable Lord Sir Falmouth was going to survive this incident with a minor scar on his shoulder and an exciting story to wow the high-price whores with. Meanwhile, Bumblefuck, our erstwhile killer, was dying noisily from a dozen sword wounds. Falmouth's body guards weren't top caliber, but they weren't bad. They handled it all well -- two men to cover the principal, and two to handle the direct threat. They were already hustling him through the stampeding press of screaming operagoers.
Oh well, I wasn't all that eager to see "The Man From Skarshelm" again. I saw it at the Theatre Intime, and the talent at the Globe isn't nearly as good. At least they saved me the trouble of dealing with the late Kid Screwup. Normally, I wouldn't get involved, but Falmouth was my target and I'd been observing him for the past week. Now he knew that someone was after him -- not that there had been any doubt, really. Lots of people were after him. He had a singular brand of greed, arrogance and low cunning, which had led him to his current position as the Assistant Minister of the Treasury. He also had a taste for high-stakes gambling. His refusal to honor his debts to my employers, and his belief that his position would keep him safe, would prove to be terminal mistakes.
This whole business with the amateur attempt complicated my life enormously, and I hated complications. My clients wouldn't be stupid enough to send in this idiot - they too, were professionals, but however it happened, my price just went up quite a bit. We in the business call it "hazard pay." The Falmouth and his guards would be much more careful in the near future. I'd have to do a great deal more work now. Oh well, maybe along with my price hike I could renegotiate the time frame.
