Stalks

A white Ford F-150 idled at the red light. Corn fields on both sides of the road blocking line of sight. A man sighed as he shifted between stalks and peered towards the roadway. Goddamn Midwest, no need for all the corn, he thought, Potatoes are just as good.

Could have been out chasing mysteries, Lowell thought, he gave a little exhale as he squeezed the trigger. The driver’s side of the truck flashed red. But here he was killing half-assed methheads with a habit of blowing their own fingers off with their shitty pipebombs. It’d be embarrassing if he didn’t receive such a high commision. You could swallow a lot of disappointment if you followed it up with twenty year old scotch and caviar.

Lowell kept his head down as he ran to the truck to check his target. A certain, Maynard Conroy occupied his worries until he arrived at the drivers side window. He needn’t of worried, hollow points and skulls go as well together as rowdy teens and unattended jack-o-lanterns. He stalked back to the corn field after laying some plastic explosives. It wasn’t necessary, but he’d developed a penchant for flair, imagining himself on a kill compilation video somewhere, he liked to stand out.

Lowell hadn’t worked too many jobs for the agency before management began to take notice. After a diplomatic envoy had been discovered coated with honey and paprika, strung up from the ceiling of his penthouse like a piñata, the executives decided someone should have a chat with Lowell and gently inform him that the agency valued results above all else.

Unfortunately for everyone but Lowell, he interpreted that as “keep up the flair, but make sure you don’t mess up.” Turned out the paprika and honey piñata didn’t even crack the top twenty of Lowell’s creative endeavors.

The following years and exploits had blessed Lowell with a busy schedule, but eventually the maxim of “do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life,” turned out to be false.

Lowell, standing in a midwest cornfield, forty feet away from a flaming F150, felt burned out.

The results were noticeably different. While management tried to be happy about a more subdued set of results, they became concerned a lot an unhappy operative.

Lowell ended up in therapy, agency provided, of course. It gave him ample time to reflect on the breadth and variety of ends he’d designed for his assignments.

The platypus poison filled cupcake had been a pain to fill, but worth it when the medical examiner snapped his clipboard in shock. A pair of deftly cut Achilles at Pamplona led to an exquisitely gruesome goring, and of course? The C4 shuffleboard game proved explosive.