The Character Assassin

MAX MORODA: CHARACTER ASSASSIN

CHAPTER ONE: AN EXISTENTIAL THREAT

Max was sitting in his local bar in the evening, brooding over a whisky and beer chaser. He'd not long come back from his last mission, which had left a sour taste in his mouth. Marty McFly had been a slippery little bastard: didn't help that Max didn't really want to kill him. But, back to the future, and not for him to argue. Except this time.

Max was a character assassin; he had special skills for the job. In the main, he had very little internal dialogue and not much by way of imagination. This meant he could enter a story like an open book, if you will, with nothing to bring to the narrative but sudden death. Killing beloved fictional characters was starting to stick in his craw a little though - knowing, even with his dismal handout of imagination, the world was a slightly lesser place with every job he took.

He was maybe two jobs away from retirement, he figured. The next one was why he was here, waiting: he didn't usually contact his employers. His instructions came via a piece of paper in a deposit box at the central station or a phone call. He'd had no cause to question them until now.

His contact, a small brown wrinkled man in a small brown wrinkled suit, arrived and sat across from him. The look on his face said he didn't want to be there. The Syndicate didn't like to deal directly with its operatives. Max said nothing: he just produced his most recent paper and placed it on the table between them.

“You have...an issue with this assignment.” The contact said, rather than asked.

Max hunched forward over his whisky, looking down.

“Can I ask, just for once, why this guy?”

The contact signaled for more whisky, which was brought without question.

“He poses an existential threat.”

“To whom?”

The contact raised his glass to his lips, then set it down without drinking.

“We expect there will be some time travel involved in this assignment, so your fee will be doubled.”

“Well that's mighty white of you,” said Max, “but I have this issue.”

A train rumbled by, drowning out the blues on the bar's stereo.

“I've never killed a real person before.”

The contact smiled.

“Do you not think fictional characters had a life of their own, in their way? When you killed Harry Potter, or Frodo, did you feel nothing?”

“Not quite my point.” Said Max. “This guy inserted himself into his stories. There's every possibility I'd kill him for real as well.”

“There certainly is. We'll take that chance if you will.”

He raised his glass again and drained it at one go.

“So you're saying he's an 'existential threat' then. Why not Camus? I'd have thought he was more dangerous.”

The agent chuckled. “Camus is...harder to get to.”

“Oh okay, so Sartre's an easier target then. Because he plays himself in his books.”

“Correct, Mr. Moroda.” The contact rose to leave. “But if you don't feel up to this assignment, or have an ethical dilemma...?”

“Hey hey, I got bills to pay. Ethics be damned.”

“Very well. But do not make the mistake of thinking Sartre will be an easy target. I hope you have a strong stomach.”

He turned and left. Max went home and to bed, to dream of nothing.

The next day he prepped himself. He went to the library and borrowed a copy of “Nausea” just to get in the right mindset. He decided against eating anything much, just some milk and cookies - digestives. Then in the evening he went and boarded a train, which somehow seemed to be bound through the French countryside.

He wasn't out to waste time: with a photo of Sartre in hand he worked his way along the compartments. It seemed to be dawning outside when he found his match.

Max pushed his way into the compartment, to find Sartre lounging in a chair. A half empty vial of laudanum was on the table by his side, along with a half empty bottle of cognac. He looked at Max through languid eyes.

“Bonjour, monsieur.” He said while lighting a gauloises. “I've been expecting you.”

He smiled, and poured two glasses of cognac, pushed one toward Max, who was on the verge of why not, when the feeling started to grip him. It started in his stomach, and flowed up to his brain, which started to swirl around and hurt. He knew the time travel would have some effect, but this was different: the nausea exuded from Sartre's presence itself. Half blind, he reached for his gun, fumbled and dropped it.

Sartre laughed. “That which does not truly live is not so easy to kill.” He said.

“That's not your line.” Max grumbled as he groped around. Not finding his gun, he found the table and a bread knife which he wildly plunged into Sartre's forehead with all his might. He actually grinned almost gleefully, looking up at Max with wide, vivid eyes.

And at that moment the train went into a tunnel and they were, how you say, plunged into darkness. Max heard movement, but couldn't see or do anything, still gagging from the overpowering atmosphere in the compartment.

When the light dawned back in, Sartre was gone. Max cursed, picked up his gun and lurched out of the compartment, composing himself briefly before hunting the bastard down. He found him hunched in a recess near the dining car, the butter knife still protruding from his forehead. He was still grinning as Max loomed over him. The nauseating atmosphere still surrounded him but wasn't as powerful as in the compartment.

“Just wanted to borrow a few more minutes of time.” He said.

“Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness, and dies by chance.”

“Not this time Jean Paul.” Said Max, leaving his gun in his pocket.

“Hell might be other people, but this time it's me.” And he reached down and pushed the butter knife the rest of the way into Sartre's brain. The writer choked, and his eyes began to glaze; his grin closed and became twisted. Soon he expired, with a long sigh that sounded almost happy.

Max rose, and immediately saw to his right, through the windows of the dining car doors, two uniformed figures. They barreled through, shouting, as Max made for it as they chased him, all the way through the train to the rear platform where he threw himself on the gravel, shots ringing out over him.

He lay on the gravel for a moment, before a shadow cast itself over him. He looked up to see Camus, silhouetted against the setting sun, leering over him. A Gitane dangling from his lip.

“What the hell are you doing here Camus?” Max demanded as he tried to scramble up.

“Oh I was expecting to meet you, Monsieur Moroda.”

“How do you know my name?” He lurched to his feet and Camus grabbed him by his lapels.

“You are well known in literary circles, monsieur.” A hand snaked up to grip Max's throat, vice like.

“Do not wait for the Last Judgment.” He whispered hoarsely in Max's face. His breath was foul. “It takes place every day.” His grip tightened.

Max gasped for breath – Camus was crazy strong - and groped in his coat for his revolver.

“Not this one Albert.” He managed to choke out before plugging him clean through the shoulder. Camus reeled backward with a screech like a seagull and fell. “A man without ethics!” He squawked as he writhed on the ground. “A wild beast loosed upon this world!”

Max also fell to his knees for a moment - he knew he couldn't kill Camus, tempted as he might have been - before looking back up the track to see the train disappearing fast. No time to waste, he clambered up and ran after it. He managed to make the rear platform and hang on, hunkered down and out of sight, just as the train entered another tunnel. A long one this time.

When it came out, it was at the station, where he'd started. He stepped onto the platform, dusted himself off, and made his way to his local bar for a whisky and beer chaser. Saw his face reflected in the glass and figured he needed a shave and shower, so he paid and left as night fell.

He picked up the phone that started ringing as soon as he arrived home.

“You did well.” the voice croaked a bit, like an old crow.

“The world is a safer place.”

“So you say.” Said Max.”So tell me, did I kill the character or the man? Or both?”

“You'll have to check the bookstores.”

“You're a riot, you know that.” Max poured a drink, phone cradled in his shoulder.

“So you eliminated Sartre. What about Camus?”

“No, just winged him.”

“Good, good.” There was the sound of ice chinking in a tumbler.

“Check your mail tomorrow for a new assignment.”

Max heaved a heavy sigh. “I think this might be my last one.”

There was an almost muffled chuckle from the other end. “You may well be right.”

The call ended, and Max, after finishing his drink, went to bed, to dream of nothing.

Next day, he got up around 10:AM. He shaved and showered, put on some fresh clothes and felt slightly better about himself. He checked his bank account and found it to be considerably fatter than the day before, so took himself downtown for breakfast.

A man of simple tastes, he ate bacon and eggs on toast with black coffee at the diner across from the station. When he was done, he left a decent tip and crossed the road, looking left and right. You never know.

Once in the station, with people careening around him, Max was a little disoriented. He seriously was not feeling like a social person. He made his way through the morass of humanity to the lockers. He pulled out his key and opened his to find the usual piece of white paper, turned upside down. He picked it up and turned it over, to read three words in marker pen:

GET THE MOUSE.