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My Life as a Slightly Manically Depressed Hitman with ADD Tendencies

Transcription of audio entry. Timestamp 1351. Sounds of a zipper, then weapon assembly noises. Vague tapping in the background.

"This is agent -"

Agent identification redacted.

"I am in position. Based on previous reconnoitering I have anywhere from three to fourteen minutes before the target gets home. It all depends on whether or not he stops for Starbucks after work. Most times he doesn't, but sometimes -"

Tapping sound intensifies. Loud clang then sounds of metal hitting concrete.

"Starbucks! Goddamnit! Can you believe the length of time a person could measure their life on this planet is dependent upon the purchase of a double half-caf non-fat latte!?"

Sound of small grunt and rustling of clothes.

"Can you imagine a world where the length of time a person has to live is determined by the choice of whether or not to pay five bucks for seventeen cents worth of milk, cream and coffee bean? Something as absurd as a venti-sized cardboard cup's worth of legal stimulant -"

Unintelligible vocalization.

"- the difference between having enough time to call your loved ones to share one unknowing final heart-felt moment? Death himself would have to stand waiting in your driveway, holding his scythe and tapping his foot while looking impatiently at his watch because you chose to go to Starbucks? That life could be so frivolous, so meaningless, so futile?"

Heavy sigh followed by sound of insertion of ammunition into weapon.

"Why bother? I mean, really, what's the point of anything? If life can be so easily destroyed, so easily snuffed out? If life is so bereft of -"

Another sigh and more rustling. Mic sound quality indicates weapon is raised.

"Oh, there's the target now, looks like he didn't go to Starbucks after all. No last call to a loved one for him. Loved one. Maybe I finally found a loved one, huh? Things seem to be going well enough with Angela. I mean, I know it's only been, what, four dates? But her smile - the little dimples that form around her mouth and the way she tilts her head to let me know she's joking about something she's said, and her body, man, her body's to die for."

Mic sound quality indicates weapon is lowered.

"To die. Death."

Low whistle then sound of metal tapping concrete.

"Just gotta line up these cartridges...just...like...so...death...death...bringer of dea-"

Sound of car door slamming in the distance. Sound of fabric on mic.

"The target!"

Mic sound quality indicates weapon is raised.

"Should I hit him while he's on the concrete driveway or when he's walking by the flowerbed? It's so hard to get bloodstains off concrete, and his wife - make that widow, soon - will have enough on her mind as it is, but it'd be a shame to ruin that beautiful floral landscaping."

Mic sound quality indicates weapon is lowered. Tapping sound begins.

"I wonder how his wife got the rosebush looking so nice? Hey, I bet Angela would like some roses, or is she allergic? I'll have to give her a call after the job t-"

Mic sound quality indicates weapon is raised.

"The job! Hey! Where'd he go?"