Nothing Personal
Make love, not shed blood!
This story was written for Flash Fiction February by Bradley Ramsey.
If you want to read more of my writings, please read my published books: The Seekers: Soul-Ties, Kirin, and Perrin Peters. And if you don’t want to buy my books but still want to support me, I’m on Patreon. And if you prefer one-time payments, you can Buy Me A Pizza.
Content warning: mass assassination!
Say no to assassins!
Killing is inhumane!
Make love, not shed blood!
I walk through a big crowd of protestors holding colorful signs with similar slogans. The people don’t just hold them — they also yell the same words. The air itself is soaked in rage and resolve, and I’m not immune to its effect.
Energized, I walk through them faster, reaching the end of the crowd. Turns out, the protestors surround two small cafés in the middle of the street. But which one do I need?
“Excuse me,” I address the closest person. “In which café is the assassin meeting being held?”
She looks at me and smiles. “In the left one, deary, called Cool Caramel. I visit it regularly. The éclairs there are so great!”
I thank the old woman and follow her directions.
Indeed, as soon as the doors slide open, I see RustyMike and AcidGean sitting at a long table. In the middle of that table is a sign that says, “Biannual Meeting of the Assassin Profession.”
“Long time no see.” I shake their hands and sit down on the closest chair. “Looks like the rest of them are as unpunctual as ever.”
Gean nods. “Don’t mind them, Rourke. Better order these vanilla éclairs, they’re amazing!”
The waiter was probably waiting for these words, for he’s already behind my back. As I make the order, I hear the doors opening.
“Oh, look who’s here!” FieryFran’s voice exclaims. “Where were you all this time, Rourke?”
As I shake her hand and look into her big, brown eyes, warm gratitude starts flowing down my veins. Fran was one of my mentors, and she’s a very good teacher and friend.
“You know, here and there…” I almost look away, feeling awkward. “A few of the latest targets were chiefs of some indigenous tribes all over the world, and it took forever to travel there, gain their trust, and then eliminate them.”
The eyebrows of all my colleagues go up.
“You have to tell us all about it!” RustyMike demands.
~*~
“And that’s when I remembered there was another vial in my back pocket—”
“And you forced the poison down her throat?” Gean asks, wide-eyed. Everyone’s eyes are wide, for the table is finally full of both people and desserts.
I shake my head. “Nah. I didn’t want them to pursue me through the jungle I know shit about, so I’ve poisoned their water instead. Nobody bothered me on my way back.”
“This is quite a tale, Rourke.” Fran sounds half-amused, half-impressed. “Does anybody have questions?”
Indeed, the questions follow. And once I’m done, RustyMike starts his topic: 3D-printed “gut bombs.” Apparently, once you swallow one, it opens and clogs your insides.
I listen, trying to figure out how it can be useful. The waiter comes again to get us more of their amazing pastry. Every time the sliding doors open, I hear the protestors’ slogans, but they’re polite enough to do their important work outside. The café customers also don’t bother us, unlike the last time when a few people tried to join our ranks.
None of my colleagues looks preoccupied or scheming, and I hope that I also don’t look that way. The plan has already been set in motion. I already glued a small bomb to the bottom of our table. The café’s small volume will ensure that no one survives. Sure, it is a shame to kill such a polite waiter, but at least the bakers should be safe. With any luck, they’ll continue working, and I’ll eat those great pastries again one day.
I excuse myself and leave for the bathroom. Holding the trigger always brings a smile to my lips. There’s such power over life and death, order and destruction in this small, red button and some electronics underneath. My thumb gently rubs the smooth plastic as my imagination paints the picture of what is going to happen in the room. Nothing personal, friends. One just doesn’t refuse so much money.
My thumb severs their faits.
I blink.
My thumb. Severs. Their. Faits.
I blink again.
Nothing. Not a sound. No shake of an explosion.
Did the bomb fail? It almost never happens—the manufacturer offers a 10-year warranty!
Did somebody see and disarm it? If so, do they know who put it there? Did my going to the bathroom seem suspicious?
Sweating profusely, feeling my heart race, I glance at the bathroom window. It’s too small for me. The panic gives me a cold spell and makes me shake. I must… I must…
A sword seems to pierce my stomach, making me bend double, and then fall to the floor. My body convulses as I projectile vomit. Everything burns like I drank acid, and my vision turns dark.
“Rourke! Rourke, are you still there?” FieryFran’s voice sounds amused. The door creeks open. “Oh, there you are! Still alive, I see.”
She clicks her tongue as her footsteps approach. “Is it proper to try killing your former mentor, Rourke? Is it proper to kill so many of your colleagues?
A shadow of guilt does prick me through the agony.
She chucles. “Well… I’m not in the position to lecture you about that. Happy dying, Rourke! The difference between us is that no one hired me. Nothing personal. I just figured that sooner or later, one of you will be tasked with killing some or all of us. And so, I took matters into my own hands and bribed the waiter to bring you something very special. I will disappear and leave my old life behind. Ta-ta, Rourke! It was nice knowing you.”
The End
Anton Anderson, 2026