A dull thud of a shot burrowing into the collarbone of our bike messenger and blank; Nothing but white noise.
The studio audience is watching through what I describe as “shellshock vision,” the scene playing before my eyes. Watching the splintering bone and what I can only assume to be a rather large hodgepodge of blood and body violently exploding through the anterior ribcage, maybe even some vertebrae. It’s all over the narrow, one-way street; A visceral, abstract expressionist version of modern man, with the body in question hovering in midair, collapsing in on its vital points, unfortunately also its point of impact, and the bike careening, free of it’s submissive life to men, into the side of our nearby limousine-slash-security detail.
The color grainy and dilapidated. The screams deafened. All of this in the breath of one thought, one sentence and then…
A brief pause before something in the world went wrong.
“Who fired?” roaring through the headset microphone’s of the entire team. No responses, just the telltale static of our own electronic failure. Perched a over a mile away laying stomach flat in a cushy company van, I am the instrument of my own failure. For one second in time, I am the barrel of a certain semi-automatic 50 caliber rifle and a brief moment later my resolve is expended out of that chamber of isolation, empty and purposeless. I’m good and used up, and I’d say it was a long overdue time to retire.
Wait a minute. I should apologize. This is hardly a way to start. I’m going to backtrack a bit so just try and keep up.
It’s actually a rather boring day. There are four of us right now, lounging around not accomplishing what anyone could perceive as any real work. We’re all just waiting, if truth be told, for one man to finish up a rather pompous meeting in his plush headquarters with, debatably, the biggest names of our day. However, votes are already in that they’re definitely the biggest stiffs of our day. Unfortunately for our entertainment value, our slothful quartet is being kept separate, cramped up in strategically placed offices around this great city. Which great city are we in this week? It’s pretty hard to keep track. Fuck, I guess I don’t even remember.
Mic’d up for ease of communication. We have something like a 50 mile radius that we can transmit to each other. Maybe a bit more if one of us can track down an army radio man, but it’s tough because most of those poor bastards died when the United States, in her great wisdom decided not to give them rifles.
“And that’s how we won both great wars, through our sending of wave after wave of radio men at the Nazis.”
Static. Silence.
“Well, think about that, just let it sink in.” Echoes from miles away, locked behind some floor to ceiling mirror talking to us to keep from talking to himself. It’s all about nerves.
“Guys, I think I’m out for this one. The pink pills are making me feel really good.”
“Are you going over on percs?”
“I don’t know. It’s a possibility. It might be a handful of oxycodone. I forget now.”
“Well that’s just great. We’re already down one.” It’s all about nerves.
“So I heard the guy they were after in the Gobi disappeared right when they were about to plug the leak.”
“So? That just means our international counterparts suck at their jobs.”
“No man, I mean he disappeared before their eyes. Like turned invisible.”
“Damn it man, quit trying to mess with the stoned guy.”
“Can I ask you guys a serious question?”
“…”
“I was thinking I might need to new field, with me and Alicia having that baby. I just don’t think this will work. Can you guys imagine me sitting here, with a little girl on my lap, doing this shit years from now?”
“…”
“Damn, I don’t know. I know the company’s policy.”
“You are under contract man. This is the kind of place that has lawyers I would not ever try to screw with.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s just that…” It’s all about nerves.
How long can you last in this kind of work? Companies do psych profiling every day. Certain personalities work well with customers, certain personalities are quickly and quietly promoted to management. There are certain personalities that just aren’t fit out for most jobs, but in this day and age there’s a need for employees of all types for various lines of work. Most of these professional pathways aren’t very public or, in many cases, official positions.
How long can take my line of work? I guess that depends on how you feel about, among other things, daily travel.
“Not to interrupt guys, but I’m feeling lighter than air.”
“You all do realize that we are easily the worst army ever?”
“Not true. We didn’t make up a story about losing a target because of his penchant for invisibility.”
“But any excuse they would have is just immediately believable and even downright adorable in their outrageous French accents.”
“Hey guys, Don’t look now but our big man’s meeting is getting out.”
“Yeah, don’t worry about it. We have about ten minutes before he gets outside.”
“I wonder how productive his day of selling industry inside information has been.”
“You think it’s enough to get him a raise?”
“Yeah, he needs a raise like he needs a bullet in his head.”
This job. It’s all about nerves. Can you lay around for the better part of day and stay as tense as any person has ever been while your body is a languishing mass of whatever muscle relaxants you managed to steal from the cupboard of your last one-night stand? Then after laying around all day, can you manage one second of complete control over your body? The meeting is over. There are four of us around town, perched like the most stoned feral cats of our animal kingdom. One of us, having hoarded a particularly big score from last night’s completely sexist and male dominant festivities, relinquishing himself of all responsibility but still being paid the same rate as us lowly grunts sits, pressed against one way glass and his army surplus binoculars, spotting for our ramshackle excuse for a team and way of life.
“Hey, we got a biker trying to act out the opening scene from Grosse Point Blank down there.” He’s right, there’s some young upstart kid, maybe even hired at random, riding the wrong way down a one way street, his hands reaching for whatever meager armament he could obtain and still avoid a seven day waiting period and background check.
The meeting’s resolved. The Leak in our company signed his confidentiality agreement, and stands to make a large sum of money in keeping his mouth shut. It doesn’t really matter though. The suits are pretty sure they won’t have to pay a cent to him. Unfortunately, The Leak has his own form of, I guess you can call it insurance, and he’s coasting his eighteen speed past the Leaking limo and up towards a small group of middle management suits that are really nothing but decoys at this point.
“We now have two targets. North face take primary. Clean shot take rider.”
How long could you last in my job? Quick, there’s nothing but a split second to answer. There’s a man standing a mile away who tried to take company secrets and either sell them or blackmail his own former bosses into paying for his retirement. The only thing he is really taking away from this meeting is a bullet to the throat. I work in an industry where our competitors will do anything to find out what we are all up to. At the same time we take all necessary measures to protect our assets. I’m a corporate assassin, in the most literal sense of the world.
So quick, think you can handle my job?
“I’ve got mark on the biker.”
It’s all about nerves. Can you lay in the back of a company van in a downtown parking garage seeing through only one eye through the most powerful rifle scope private industry can buy, with no communication save the three voices in your head, similarly quartered for the night in like places around town? And in one important moment, tense every muscle in your drowsy drug-coma body to heft the majority of an unnecessarily powerful scout sniper rifle and do the one thing that will save your job? Taking the other guy’s job away.
Corporate downsizing. Can you take out the biker before he gets rid of your boss’ boss, who is still innumerable tiers below your real boss? It’s all part of a psych profile. Some people are good for customer service. Some people are good for management. Some people just are not suited for these jobs. Those people are hired to take care of the company in more discreet ways, such as from the back of a van about a mile away from a wet behind the ears intern riding his bicycle strapped down with a small army’s arsenal. Can you take out the biker?
I can.
It’s all about nerves.
From this distance you wouldn’t even here the sound of my shot, all you see is the Jackson Pollack display of modern art the biker made, a true testament to his artistic ability.
It’s all about nerves. Crisp. Delicious. Carbonated. Always interesting.
Welcome to the Soda industry.