There are naturals in every field. Science has Einstein, Basketball has Jordan, and Art has Picasso. You've never heard of me, because I'm the best of Assassins, and by merely knowing my name you would earn yourself first hand experience of my skill.
So what exactly makes me the perfect assassin? Well, first off, the government has nothing on me. I've never been caught breaking a law, simply because I've never broken a law.
Allow me to explain.
All my life I've had terrible luck. And I don't mean the "my girl friend broke up with me on valentine's day" type of bad luck. I mean that the longest period of time that I've had without a cast has been six days. I've had salmonella, ebola, ecoli, and once I caught food poisoning from a steak so well done it tasted like a combination of shoe leather and charcoal. I lost my parents when I was eight, and everyone I've ever been close to has died in ways that have never failed to make the front page of the local paper.
But there is one rule to my bad luck- it will never kill me. Actually, I'm convinced it's programmed to never let me die.
When I was eighteen, and held the six shot revolver to the side of my head to end everything, there were six duds in the chamber. When I tried to slit my wrists the knife danced around my veins as if they were made of wet spaghetti. The one time I almost succeeded was when I was twenty two, and jumped off the top of a twelve story building.
I don't remember it being breezy that day, but the wind blew me back through a window on the eighth, the glass shredding my skin to ribbons but leaving me very alive.
The doctor that stitched me up stayed afterward to have a word with me, and I remember the conversation clearly.
"Son, you were very lucky to have that wind. But all rights, the fall should have killed you."
"Lucky, eh?" I said, chewing on the side of my lip.
"Yes, you were. I'm sure you have a bright future ahead of you."
And maybe it was the twinkle in his eye, of his kind face, or his sheer optimism in what he did not know, but I started to like the doctor. He visited my room twice before leaving that day, and I never did see him again.
Neither did his wife or kids, nor anyone else on staff. I've never seen a sinkhole swallow a car whole, but apparently that's a possibility.
It didn't take me too long to notice the trend. Spend too much time around me, fool fate into thinking we're friends, and you were as good as dead.
And now, three years after becoming a professional, I scouted out my fortieth target. He was blond, tall, and downing beers like the hops industry relied solely on him to survive. I carried no gun- there was too much chance that it would go off prematurely, just like all the unlucky sex I had had in my life. The bar was crowded, and as I walked forward to meet him, I stumbled on a bump in the entrance rug, colliding into him and spilling the beer across the countertop.
"What the Hell?" He said, standing up to wipe off his shirt where the dark beer had begun to take root among the white.
"Sorry about that, sorry about that. Let me buy you another. The name's Tye, Tye Floyd-Mary," I said, giving my false name while extending my hand.
"Martin," He said, accepting my hand.
"Well great to meet you Martin. What is it you do?"
"Corporate journalist," He said, "I do a lot of traveling. Try to keep businesses from overstepping their bounds. Yourself?"
"I'm more of a people person," I said, as the first round slid across the bar.
Three beers later, I was starting to think Martin was a real stand up guy.
There's nothing like being paid to make friends.