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Klingon Hamlet

Morning starts like any other. Take the call, get the target's name and location, show up smiling like a salesman, suitcase in right hand, gun inside. Door swings open and a double barrelled shotgun pokes out and rips my chest wide open with a bang. I fall sideways, coughing up last night's dinner; meantime two feet blur past me and then all turns black.

Magic carpet ride over ice mountains. Look Mom I'm flying. The mountainpeaks spout blue flame, ice melts off, red fire everywhere. Oh **** I'm dying. The pain: it's in me and it's enjoying it, I'm screaming. Get it out. GET IT OUT.

Morning starts like any other. Take the call...

*You ****ed it up."

I nod as if he can see me. Cos I know he can. The cameras are all over the hospital. And he's all over the city. I'm a dead man. "Sorry."

"You ****ed it up."

My head feels like the business end of a dick at a stag's. I've got more sweat than skin. "He must've ID'd me. Security breach."

"We're unbreachable. You know that. Nothing goes out we don't want going out. You weren't traced. You were tracked. You know what that means."

CLICK. Line's dead. So am I. Footsteps, squeak of a heel. Someone steps in grinning. Tall man, skinny face, very wide mouth, like someone's pulling his cheeks til his lips come close to splitting. He has something small and sharp in his hand. He's spinning it slowly.

"Ah," he gasps, "I see you're awake. Let me take a look."

Slides over to me. Can smell the grease in his slicked-back hair. He leans in til we're eye-to-eye. Only one chance. I give him the thumbs-up, smile, and push my thumb into his left eyesocket. The eyeball pops under the pressure, oozing down my wrist while I push in deeper. Can feel something spongy---must be brain---so I push hard, jab at it a few times. He is screaming throughout all of this. I pull the thumb back out with a comical PLUP, and he vomits and dies right there on my chest. I ignore his quivering lips. Dying neurons are having one last party.

I jump to my feet. My chest is clean, clear. No bullet-holes. "You guys are good," I tell the probably dead man. What's the thing in his hand? Oh. It looks anal.

I rob his doctor's costume---he's not REALLY a doc---and stroll out whistling. faces emerge from behind curtains along the hallway, like a queue of ghosts. I wink at a chesty nurse. I walk out the door into the light.

A car pulls up. "Get in." It's Busby. "I SAID...get in."

One longing glance at the hospital---it's remarkably ornate, with glass everywhere, even a trimmed garden---and hop in.

"You've blood on you." Busby wrinkles his chubby nose, swipes at the remnants of a combover.

I nod, smirk, flick the bit of brain out the window. "They tried to get me. I have to go spectral."

Busby's face goes diagonal. "That's a zero. There's nothing below grid these days. If they want someone, they'll get them. Even if they have to cut through ****ers like me."

Pangs of guilt. "Busby, thanks for this---I owe you."

He nods. I listen to the wheels spin, the road and wind ripple past. All this is the past already. I'm watching it scroll like film strip. When's it over? Soon.

Very ****ing soon.

"Here we are." Busby slaps my knee, holds on a little too long. "Best be going." He's given me airline tickets.

I shake his hand--again, cloying. I grimance, then grin. "I'll make it upto you."

Busby goes red. "You already have. Take care."

Out and in. Hundreds of nobodies. Make way, a doctor in the house. I dump the overcoat---no doubt my face is getting widespread. I flex my face-muscles, now I'm Beta-me. Same but different. All in the expressions, see. Like accents for your face. Same but different.

Flight takes off. Free and clear. Stewardess leans in, chest perky, lips red. "Glad you're back, sir."

I wink. "Glad to be back." Curtains. Faces. Phone rings. No place like Home.