the assassins

by nick nelson

the meeting had fallen silent, with the participants staring into space with their hands on their knees. ms parkhust, the facilitator, looked from face to face searching for a spark of life. “mack? you look like you might want to say something?” “no, i’m good,” mack replied. “anybody else?” ms parkhurst asked. “does anybody have something they would like to share?” “i do.” “very good, stan. thank you.” stan stood up. he looked straight ahead and cleared his throat. “my name is stan gantry, and i am a trained deadly assassin.” “thank you for sharing that, stan. is there anything you would like to add?” “i saw and did things too terrible to be told.” “bullshit,” one of the participants seated behind stan announced . “now, bradley,” said ms parkhurst, “you know that we encourage positive input.” “including for something that is positively bullshit?” bradley shot back. “you know that we encourage the free exchange of views,” ms parkhurst continued in a mild voice, “but negativism is not in the spirit of the meeting.” “there is no way this gentleman is, ever was, or ever will be, a trained deadly assassin,” bradley insisted. “i don’t see how you can say that,” mary jane johnson, who never contributed much to the discussions, interjected. “how can i say it?” bradley replied. “i will tell you how i can say it. because there are no trained deadly assassins, at least not like you see in the movies. i am not saying that the c i a might not have somebody killed once in a while, or that there are not people who will kill for money, or make themselves available to kill for money.” “then what exactly are you saying?” ms parkhurst asked. “i’m saying there are no people like you see in movies or read about in thrillers, who do it as a full time occupation, like being a doctor or a lawyer or selling real estate. and make big money doing it! how many people would they kill? one a month? one a week? and supposedly there are thousands of them out there, working for the c i a, for the f b i, for this or that top secret organization, for god knows who. the bodies would be piled up on the sidewalks, you wouldn’t be able to walk down the street. no, my friends, the trained deadly assassin is a fantasy figure as much as sherlock holmes or miss marple, or vampires or werewolves.” “that is all very well, bradley,” said mary jane johnson, “but it is all just your opinion. i know, because i was a trained deadly assassin myself.” “so was i,” added shirley phillips. “and so was i,” said patricia mastronello. “i was one for twenty years,” said chuck davis, in a booming voice from the back of the room. “i was one for thirty years,” mike richardson, who was seated right beside bradley, looked up at him and said. bradley tried to laugh. “how about you?’ he asked ms parkhurst. “i suppose you were one for forty years?” “no,” ms parkhurst replied. “only six or seven years, before i got married. now sit down, bradley, it looks like you have been outvoted.” bradley shook his head. “next i suppose you are all going to say you were vampires or werewolves or zombies.” “we can take that up some other time,” ms parkhurst told him. “maybe at next week’s meeting.”