MIC

by Alex Stevenson

    Mic's multifacited personalities embue him with a mysterious aura that can be felt by anyone around him.    He is a tall man with short brown hair, like that of a marines.  His exposed skin leaves no mystery to those who view it, for they can only conclude that he is very powerful and should never be triffled with.  His bulging muscles seem as if they are fighting to escape the tight constraints of his dermis.  His bold features create landmarks on his face, rich with high ridges and deep valleys.  His glassy eyes protrude a stare of intrigue bludgeoned with an exuberance fueled by rage and frustration.  His figure is massive and lumpy with muscles that you would never see on even the most obscure athletes.  His hands are tough and leathery and appear to have been operated on several times.  This man has business to take care of, and will stop at nothing to get it done.

    It is another weekday night, and Mic sits in the back room of his pawn  shop.  He watches the nightly new channels and flips between the ACHE, and FAUX news stations.  He sits and eats his cheeseburger and stares blankly at the glowing box of entertainment.  He hears his cell phone ring, and removes it from his pocket and answers.  He's just received his first assignment for the week.  He rights down the crucial information on the brown paper bag that was once the package for his burger.  He gets up and turns off the TV, he then grabs his coat from the rack next to the door and departs on his mission.

    Earlier the same day MIC had several lookers come into his store, but none of them were interested in buying anything.  That was until a middle-eastern man entered the shop.  He asked MIC if he had any "toys".  MIC turned on the radio and took the man into the basement.  There he entered a series of numbers into a key pad and turned a big round handle to open the door that looked like it should be on a submarine.  They walked into the small dank room where the walls were covered from floor to ceiling with guns.  The man was interested in buying a concealable weapon for self protection.

Mic ended up selling him a  9mm handgun for  a few hundred dollars.

    The hitman entered the small dank apartment building.  The walls were cracked and had been built so close together that if two men stood shoulder to shoulder they'd be stuck.  The floors cold and dirty, had but only a few patches of shabby carpet to cover it which smelled of urine and sin.  The stairs were creaky and with every step that mic took to asend them, he felt as if he'd fall straight through and never stop.  

When he finally reached the 6th floor he unholstered his 92fs baretta and screwed on the silencer.  He continued, pacing slowly and with grace to the end of the hall, where in the last room lie fate, and it was looking grim.  

    As a child, there was a great deal of admiration placed in the hands of the television heroes for Mic.  He watched in amazement as the cowboy on the screen effortlessly threw his adversaries into oblivion.  The bad guys would flee in fear even at the sight of the protagonist, because he was infamous for being an excellent shot.  Though, the thing that got Mic most excited was the way he could trap the evil doers with his ingenious plans.  The rememberence of watching this man think of masterfully convoluted contraptions to surprise his enemies, was inspiring to Mic.  For him it was the impetus that stimulated his thinking in the feild of duty.  Mic knocked on the door.  At first nobody answered, then a fain voice muttered;

"Just a minute".

    He waited in excitement  as he thought up a perfect scheme to pounce on the man with the element of surprise.  The door opened.  Hello Amir, I'm so sorry to bother you at this un-godly hour, but i believe you left some paperwork at my office that you need to fill out .  Right as the man was most vulnerable, (before he was able to draw his gun), Mic had already managed to deliver six bullets to his chest.  The delivery man stood still for a moment, in his state of post hit nirvana.  He savored the steroidial ejaculation of his adrenal gland, until there was nothing left but the permeating smell of GSR.  Mic was proud and satisfied that he was able to put another dangerous man to rest in hell.  He thought that he'd just accomplished a great deed by ridding this world of another dangerous criminal.  His satisfaction was great but was still surpassed by the feeling of justice.  He was just like one of his favorite heroes.

While in this momentary bliss, before the slow fade into bitter reality, Mic had sensed a small movement from the other room.  He eased himself into a state of heightened awareness which lead him to discover the small child hiding under a bed in the Eastern room.  Mic realized that he could leave no body to give him away to the mercy of criminals seeking revenge.  He had to eliminate all traces of information that pointed to him.  If he didn't, his entire judicial structure built on punishment would collapse.  This critical realization was the brief second of hesitation before the first hot, metal, slug bit into the soft flesh of the girl's body.  "No need for cleaning up, I just did", Mic exclaimed in satisfaction. 

    Mic turned on the TV as he sat in his cracked leather lazy-boy.  He spent so much of his time in this chair that it had his ass-print indented into its old cushion.  As he sunk into the soft seat, he sipped on his tall can of miller and watched the evening news.  There were images of US soldiers storming some village in the desert somewhere that mic had no intention of going to.  He felt a sickly feeling wash over him like a wave from a sea of lepers.  He set the beer down, which didn't help.  He viewed the box as it immersed him in its radiating cold glow, which permeated his inner being.  This feeling of repulsion didn't subside until he stood up immediately to go work out.  

    Mic remembered a time when this feeling was less common, and it was more likeley for him to feel admiration. His heroes were good wholesome fellows with integrity   that would crush all villians in sight.  Mic really enjoyed seeing the good guys winning the firght against evil, especially with the help of their elite worriors.  Mic would go see the movies about the soldiers who beat entire armies.  The good guys always knew what to do, and when to do it.  They always saved the day at the last minute.

    After failing to surpress his sickness by bench pressing for two hours, the feeling resurfaces. Mic sits and stares at his gigantic flag that dominated the entire Western wall of his exercise room.  Mic considers what it would feel like if he witnessed the brutal slaughter of his family.  He thought; what if when he was a child, someone had pumped his skull full of lead?  Mic realized that there would be no justice for all those murderers and racists if he had been killed, because after all, that is his job.  Mic's boss would have to find a new man to do his work, but who could ever replace him?  He is the only self righteous assassin, motivated by his own sense of justice.  There is nobody qualified enough to stand up to Mic.  He is the epitome of killing machine. 

    Mic found the new brown envelope which contained the information necessary for his next assignment.  The letter inside instructed him to go to the far end of town where all the rich people lived.  This was different from usual, because most of his hits were made in  the lower pars of town.  Mic dared not question the plan of his authorities, so he simply read the instructions thuroghly.  He was commanded to infiltratee a mansion, inside of which resided a very important figure heaad for some organization.  

    Mic gets on the train and is reviewing the explicit instructions copied onto a large packet of paper.  After what seems to be an hour of ridding the subway he arrives in the fancy neighborhood where the houses are big and the people do evil things.  He searches for the big white structure that contains the target. 

Our hero, Mic set out for his ultimate mission, to destroy the HQ of some unkown organization in some place.  Mic realizes that this is a foreign environment for him.  He has never been to this are to do a hit before.  Mic's mind is deviating into fearful territory.  He is uneasy in the present and reverts to his warm memories for comfort.  In an old movie there was a hitman just like Mic, and he was the 007 of his organization.  He was the most important assassin until he was set up to kill his own boss.  He was then the number one enemy of his own people.  Could this happen in real life?  Mic started  to consider the ramifications of killing his target.  Could he then become the primary hit of his own people?  Now there was a problem with Mic, he couldn't kill someone unless he knew it was the right thing to do.  Now there is this doubt, it has grown to fester as a hinderance; this disables him from taking action.  If he doesn't do this what will happen to his job?  

    Mic needs to find a resolution; 

"...But is there even one for me to discover"? 

    Mic starts to walk down the street, passing all the pretty houses.  Mic walks for hours and ends up in a more familiar part of town, but there is no feeling of orientation.  He rubs his eyes in exhaustion, the machine is running low on fuel.  Mic frantically thinks about what has happened.  He turns around and sees a man in a trench coat following him.  Mic bolts off in the opposite direction, around a corner and into an alleyway.  He falls to his knees and compares himself to the layer of scum thinly coating the exterior of the dumpster that is bolstering his weight.  Mic thinks.

Is this the end.  What is the end.  Where did it start.  Can it stop.  Can it stop me.  Where am I going. Where can I go.  Can I go.  The end is near.  So close I can hear.  Am I losing it.  What? No way. I'm strong. My god!  I killed my people. Where was justice then?  Captain would be ashamed.  It's not the first time.  What's evil is 

in me, and everyone.  Can't hide it from myself.  Can i fight it.  There is no justice with or without me.  But I was right.  I lived a lie, I cant go back.  Will he find me and does it matter.  Life is pointless.

Bio:  Alex is a small town man, with big time ambitions.  He enjoys long bike rides on the beach, and philosophical discourse concerning the effects of the previously warned about Military Industrial Complex.