the shady file I
the HITMAN & the REAPER
“Are you here to kill me?” the hitman asked, after a long silence.
“No, dear assassin,” the reaper replied. “I’m simply here to visit you one last time, before I can no longer visit you as a friend.”
“How will it happen?” the hitman asked.
“Your past will catch up with you,” the reaper replied.
“That… is… absolutely… of no help whatsoever.”
“I’m not here to help you, dear assassin. Or to warn you for that matter. I am simply here because I wished to meet you one last time.”
“Wait a minute,” the hitman said, after thinking for a while. “How is this the last time? If what you say actually happens, then we will see each other again.”
“But not as friends, dear child. Not as friends,” the reaper replied.
“I see. But you’ve warned me, haven’t you? I can stop it now. Be more vigilant.”
“You can try. But you will fail.”
“And why is that?” the hitman asked.
“Because death stops for no man, child. You’ve been a faithful servant. You’ve fed me more souls than most. But your life, too, must come to an end.”
“We’ll see about that,” the hitman muttered.
“Yes, we will,” the reaper said.
“So… what now, old friend?” the hitman asked, sometime later.
“We shall ride to the top of the mountain,” the reaper said. “And you shall finish our last conversation as we do.”
“Our last conversation?” the hitman asked.
“Yes, child. You had promised me something. And it is now time for you to deliver.”
“Promised you something? What did I promise you?” the hitman said, mumbling to himself, as he tried to recollect his last meeting with the reaper.
“It’ll come to you, dear assassin. Think harder,” the reaper said, softly, as he continued staring at the moon.
The hitman wondered what it was that he had promised the reaper. Their last meeting had taken place at the mansion, just before the hitman had started taking the medicines his psychiatrist had prescribed him. The reaper had appeared out of thin air, as he usually did, without any prior notice or indication. They had talked for a while, as always, about a variety of topics, with death being the primary one. The hitman clearly recollected some parts of the conversation. He did not, however, recollect all of it. He wondered if the drugs he’d been taking were to blame. Perhaps the answer he was looking for had been hidden away because of their interference with his neural processes.
The hitman continued to go over his previous meeting with the reaper, again and again, as he absentmindedly stared at the sky. The moon, still rather low in the sky, and appearing to tower over the slum city in the distance, was full, and colored a deep blood red. It was a magnificent sight, and the hitman wondered if his old friend was responsible for it. Perhaps he was so fixated on the moon because its color was, somehow, his doing. Perhaps the moon was colored with the blood of every victim the hitman, and others like him, had given to the reaper. All of a sudden, something within the hitman clicked.
“The victims…” the hitman muttered. “Blood. Death. Victims. Stories. So that’s what I had promised you.”
His old friend finally turned away from the moon, and focused his smoky, neon blue eyes on him.
“I remember now. Five stories were promised. And five shall be given. Lead the way,” the hitman said, as he shut off the transparency on his helmet.
The reaper looked at the moon one last time, and then turned his panther around. The hitman followed him, and did the same with his horse.
“Let us begin,” the reaper said, as they set off towards the mountain’s peak.