“Mr. President? Everything alright in here?”

The secret service. It got too quiet in here and they came in. Two of them.

They see me next to the lifeless President and their faces go pale.

I kick the stall door shut and scramble on the ground under the stalls.

“Stop!” One of the men yell.

Just as I reach the last stall, a shot rings out. The bullet doesn’t hit me, but its so close I feel the air movement and the vibration of whatever it impacted.

I find the switch and the secret door slides open and I’m through, sprinting in the darkness.

The two men never yell “Stop!” again or say anything else. They are out to kill me. I hear their steps pounding closer.

Another shot. It slams into the elevator just ahead of me, which opens as I approach.

Inside, the red light making me feel like a target, I take cover to the left of the doors, as another bullet flies in. I push the button about sixteen times in two seconds.

This elevator has the fastest reaction time I’ve ever seen. I swear, it’s like I’m on the Enterprise with the speed of this door. But even that wasn’t fast enough to stop the first man from reaching me.

He steps into the elevator sticking the gun in my face.

“On the ground!” He yells. With my hands instinctively up, I slowly drop to my knees.

The other secret service guy approaches outside the doors, but the first man tells him to go back and secure the President.

The man watches his partner go, gun still on me.

I’ve got my hands behind my head, eyeing the elevator button. I’m wondering if I can reach it.

The elevator doors finally shut.

Now the guy turns to me and says, “Nice job in there.”

“Huh?”

“With the hit,” he says.

My heart sinks. In fact, I’m pretty sure it sinks so low it exited my bowels, which is a really weird thing to say, but that’s how it felt. I shit my heart.

This secret service agent was one of them. He was the inside guy. He was part of this whole assassination attempt that actually succeeded but only accidentally.

“Did that old bastard stab you with your own knife?” He says noticing my wounded shoulder. “I thought you were supposed to be the best.”

“I’m really not,” I say.

“I know they paid you a lot, but since life has afforded me this opportunity to cut a loose end, namely you, I’m afraid you’re not going to get to enjoy it.”

“Wait! Wait!” I stammer, “I won’t say anything about you. You can trust me! I’m very trustworthy! All the other...uh.... hitmen and hitwomen say so.”

“Sorry,” the guy says, but I can tell he’s not.

He prepares to fire a bullet into my face which, I gotta say, is a terrible feeling. I’ve been disliked before, I’ve even been hated before. I once got in a fight at a Burger King with a friend of mine who pushed me through a window (still banned from all Burger Kings everywhere). But usually people get to know before they start to hate me.

For this stranger who I just met to be willing to kill me? It’s just a new level of feeling devalued by a person that I’ve never felt before.

Now I’m about to feel the feeling of a bullet in my face which I have never felt before.

But nope. It wasn’t meant to be.

The Secret Service agent’s walkie talkie thing squawks loudly with the other agent’s voice. He must have turned up the volume because of the loud music in the club. The agent winces.

“Jake, the President is gone!” The other agent says.

“What?!” The Jake says.

“The body! It’s gone! It’s gone!”

Now is the moment to move, I figure. With my hands still behind my head, I slam my right elbow into the elevator button.

As before, the unexpectedly fast elevator zooms downward. The agent, who was not expecting this, loses his balance just enough. I tackle his gun arm.

You should know I’m not entirely useless when it comes to fighting dudes. As you can see, I’m pretty well built and have I mentioned attractive? I used to be a bouncer for some extra cash, and I’d often get into fist fights or wrestling matches with buddies of mine. Just always liked it.

Plus I once fought and ex-police officer President.

But I’m not classically trained in any way. Not like Jake the secret service agent. He quickly pivots and is on top of me. He’s got a death grip on that gun of his, but I’m not letting go, pointing it out of the direction of my face.

The agent uses both his hands to force the gun back into my face, and it’s slowly getting there.

I’d like to head butt him like I did the President, but the agent wisely keeps it out of striking distance.

The barrel of the gun is pressing into my cheekbone. I can feel my arms about to tap out.

He’s gritting his teeth and staring into my eyes with rage.

This guy is just plain stronger than me. Stronger, more skilled, better equipped.

As soon as I think of him being “better equipped”, I immediately think of a penis joke. That’s when the idea hits me.

And that’s when I hit him.

Straight in the balls.

I pop my right knee up with speed, connecting hard with Agent Jake’s balls. I hit ‘em just right.

It’s the kind of pain that takes a moment to fully manifest. But when it does, your stomach immediately turns, all focus leaves your brain, and all you can do is double over.

And that’s exactly what happens. His face goes white, he loses grip on his gun, and he crumbles into a fetal position, clutching his privates.

I stand up. Agent Jake is good, because, even in his pain, which blinded him momentarily, he’s already reaching for the gun.

So, with everything I’ve got, I kick him in the balls.

And I kick him again. And again. Balls, balls, balls. Balls to the walls. I just keep kicking them.

A lesson you learn pretty quickly when you grow up the way I did: if your outmatched, cheat. Honor is for shmucks.

Once I’m pretty sure Agent Jake is going to be the last of his kin, I stop. My anger, which just came out of nowhere, calms down a bit. I guess getting a gun shoved in your face can make you feel some pretty strong emotions. Who knew?

The elevator stops and I exit. I don’t pick up the gun. I should have, but I didn’t think of it. I just wanted to be gone.

I run down the corridor to the secret entrance back into my favorite Italian restaurant. I’m breathing heavy and I think the blood loss is getting to me.

Reaching the door, I flick the switch. The door slides open and flames spill towards me. I fall back. The heat already feels like it’s boiling my insides.

Ok. So the restaurant is on fire now. Great. I can go that way.

Then a bullet slices the air passed my head, punching into the door frame in front of me. I swivel and see freaking Agent Jake heading towards me. It looks painful for him, stumbling often, but stumbling towards me with that freaking gun.

I dive into the fire.

I figure there’s a higher chance of survival braving a burning building than fighting a crazed secret service agent with a gun and squished balls. I mean, I kicked that guy’s balls into oblivion and he’s still coming after me! What else can I do?

The fire is everywhere, but I do see a path out of the restroom. Sweat is dripping into my eyes and the smoke has already caked my lungs.

I carefully make my way to the door. The sounds of the inferno and crumbling building make my ears useless allies. A flame flickers too close and I jump back. That’s when I spot someone in a stall.

It’s Freddy.

He’s either unconscious or dead, slumped on the ground beside the toilet. My mind races with questions but there’s no time and no one to answer them anyway. I run towards him.

“Freddy! Freddy!” I yell, slapping him pretty good on the face. He stirs slightly so I know he’s not dead.

He’s clearly not going to be able to walk out of here, though. So I carefully walk him and his stupid backpack out of the stall, and then haul him up onto my shoulders like a totally awesome firefighter saving the future love of his life. Only this firefighter is even more badass because he’s got a stab wound on his shoulder.

I trudge along until I hear a roar over the sounds of the destruction. I look behind me and see Agent Jake a little bit on fire. He followed me through, but since he’s....not the man he used to be, he must have stumbled into the fire.

He was beating the flames off his sleeve, but the that was the least of his problems. His face. It was on fire.

But his raging eyes were still fixed on me. Also fixed on me was his gun.

I told myself to double-time it, but I couldn’t go any faster, not with the weight of Freddy and what my body had already been through. The agent is shooting wildly at me as I push through the door into the restaurant hallway.

I know he’s gaining on me, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Pretty soon he’ll be so close there’s no way he’ll miss.

I make it through the burning hallway into the main dining area before the agent falls through the door. Yelling and probably dying, but not quitting.

My little Italian restaurant go-to looks like it’s been transported to hell. Bright yellow/orange fires seem to be everywhere, dancing and consuming tables, chairs, the bar area. The burning chandelier suddenly snaps and drops like a fireball from the sky. It hits with a spectacular burst, sparks flying in every direction.

I fall back and the agent is there. He’s screaming, either because he wants to kill me so badly or because the skin on his face has melted off.

He may not live long, but he’s going to live long enough to kill me. He’s 10 feet away moving closer every second.

He fires his gun one last time.

I know I’m done for, and maybe it’s because I can’t handle seeing it coming, I spin around, putting my back to him.

The bullet hits Freddys backpack. I feel the impact. Now I’m thinking my cowardice has cost my friend his life. If I hadn’t turned...

But then I see Agent Jake crumble to the floor, lifeless.

Confused but alive, I hike up Freddy and rush towards the exit. Again, death begins to feel right on top of me as the fire has pretty much consumed every untouched space. The ceiling begins to come down around me as I dash for window. It’s going to hurt, but probably safer and faster than touching a door.

Freddy and I crash through the large window, smoke and flames escaping with us. It’s once we are outside that I realize we are on fire. I quickly rolled around on the cool concrete, then roll Freddy.Then we lie there, a smoking mess.

Freddy moans. He’s not dead! I can’t believe it, so I have a look at his backpack. Sure enough there’s a bullet hole in it, right where Freddy had packed his impenetrum. The bullet must have ricocheted off the stuff and hit melting Agent Jake. Freddys invention was strong enough to deflect bullets. I told ya, the guys not half bad.

People are all around us, but it’s like they are all on mute. I can’t hear their words. I can’t take them in, my brain has no room.

After coughing up about a gallon of smoke, I finally take the sweetest deep breathe of my life. I lay flat on the ground. The stars look real beautiful.

The paramedics find us and hall us off.

And that was the end of it.

————————————-

So there you have it. I did kill the President, but not on purpose. Technically Freddy killed him with his candy. Same with the secret service agent; it was Freddy’s brick of unbreakable substance that ultimately ended the guy. Freddy’s the accidental killer. I’m the accidental killing courier.

Of course I didn’t tell anyone about what happened. Are you kidding me? No way! I wasn’t a part of this assassination plot anyway. I didn’t know anything. I was just at the wrong place and ordered the wrong thing at the wrong time.

It was all over the news even while Freddy and I were still recovery in the hospital, our beds next to each other. The President is missing was the story. Not dead, just missing. He had gone to meet some donors to his campaign with a limited detail and more information would be coming shortly they hoped. I wondered when the real news would break.

When we were alone, I told Freddy everything that happened. He had lots of questions, most of which I had no answers to.

“How people do you think were involved in this plot?” he asked, eating some hospital jello.

“No idea. At least two,” I said. “Unless the Mr. Darth Vader Voice on the phone was agent Jake.”

“Probably more than two. Probably a huge operation. Why did they want to take him out?”

“No clue. Well, I guess the President gave me some clues. Let’s just say the guy wasn’t the cleanest pig in the pen.”

“And then someone stole the body? Who stole the body?”

“I dunno.That’s the real mind bender.”

How’d the manage to even get him out of the bathroom without anyone noticing?”

“I dunno. Maybe they pulled a Weekend At Bernies and danced the body straight out the front door.”

“Amazing,” Freddy said, shaking his head and eating.

Freddy told me that while he was waiting, he did in fact order the same thing I did; the secret code word. The waiter gave him the same note, but when he got to the bathroom, the waiter was their and beat the crap out of him.

“I didn’t stand a chance against her,Mic” Freddy confessed. “She was like female Rhonda Rousey.”

“Rhonda Rousey is female, Freddy,” I said.

“Really? You know I’m no good with sports.”

“So you don’t know who set the place on fire?” I asked him.

“No, but after what you told me I bet it was your assassinators trying to cover their tracks, remove all evidence of the secret passageway of stuff,” Freddy said with excitement. He was really into all this stuff.

Which why he was happy to join me on a location change. I figured it was a good time to get out of the country. And since, according to my bank account, I had more than enough money to retire, Freddy and I moved to Costa Rica. I bought a beach front house and you can find me routinely drinking Pina Coladas under an umbrella down by the shoreline.

Which is where I have been for the last year. Just kicking back and enjoying my newfound fame.

Yup, I’m pretty famous now. No, the world still doesn’t know about my role in the President’s death (they still haven’t recovered his body, by the way). But somehow, word spread through the underworld of a deadly hitman who uses, of all things, milk to kill his targets.

That’s right. I’m the Milkman.

Every now and then I get job offers to kill a diplomat or ex wife. I always turn them down, of course. This hasn’t stopped the requests from coming in. In fact, my price keeps going up. I figure I’m like the stock market: I’m worth millions, I just can’t ever cash out.

So this is my life now and I have to say, it’s way better than it was before. Do I feel guilty that my cushy lifestyle came at the expense of killing the President? I mean, sure, sometimes, but that guy was cheating scumbag. I probably did the country a great service.

The only thing that, if I’m honest, kind of nags at me is something that Freddy asked me one night while we were stargazing on beach, drinks in hand.

“I wonder what the real hitman is gonna do now,” Freddy said, stirring his drink and slurping.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“That secret code word was set up for a hitman, right? You stumbled upon it first. But the job was supposed to be his. The huge payment was supposed to be his, too.”

But like I said, that only sometimes nags at me, but not so much anymore. It’s been a whole year and nothing has happened so I think we’re good.

I really don’t think there’s anything to worry about there.

———————————

THE END