Peter pope sat on a park bench smoking a Marlboro Red and mutely awaiting his mark. The birds chirped in the twilight hour and the last leaf fell from a sycamore. From across the pond, he saw the sprawling city of Washington D.C. gripping onto the farce of democracy and gripping the silenced Beretta in his coat, he pulled back the shirt cover as a silhouette approached him through the afternoon fog.
Sitting down next to him, the mark spoke, "nice day for a lager, huh?"
"Es demasiado tranquilo para una fiesta,"he replied.
The mark pulled out a thick file from an attaché case and said, "I'm tired of politics, maybe this will help our countries finally make peace in this senseless war."
Peter turned and said, "a friend greets his friends by the light of mid day."
With this, he pulled out the gun fired two slugs directly into the Security Chief's heart. The silencer made a whisper of the chaos as it put the benefactor into his immortal slumber and the man slumped over onto Pope's shoulder.
Peter took the cigarette from his mouth and put it between the lifeless body's lips as he laid him down on the bench, lifted his legs into a fetal position and put the man's hat over his eyes.
As he made his disappearing act, the cigarette went out and the birds chirped in the muted din of an afternoon fog.
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