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The Last Day of Alfred DuBlank; Assassin Wars
Topic Started: Jul 10 2005, 09:04 PM (401 Views)
Zero
Unregistered

The mark’s name was Alfred DuBlank, a professional chauffeur. He was employed by a small limo rental service in Tokyo, specifically one that was rather popular with a certain clientele. That clientele being the Yakuza. Sonny often lamented their bulletproof exteriors, as many a limo from that company had driven through Chinatown, holding a rowdy group of gangsters intent on a drive-by shooting. However, it had been Sonny who had gotten him the information on the company and his mark in the first place, so props were due to the Triad boss-man.

From a rooftop away, James looked down the scope of a long rifle, meant for sniping. It belonged to Con, who had lent it to him for this mission. This was tender work, and they had to do everything with precision, so James needed the best equipment he could get. The crosshair followed the figure of DuBlank over to a black Lincoln with tinted windows. He scanned the scope over the license plate, memorizing its inscription. This would be a very tricky shot, and he had to get it just right.

The door closed. DuBlank was in the car. James tightened his finger around the trigger. The rifle was bolt-action; it was all on this shot or none at all. As he focused, time seemed to slow. The car starting up seemed to take an eternity to his vision. He waited…waited…

PIP.

The shot’s report and flash was stifled by the repressor he had screwed onto the end of the barrel. He grinned with satisfaction as the shot connected with the inner edge of the exhaust pipe, a place where no one would think of looking for a tracer. He whipped out a cell phone, a disposable, cheap one. He punched the first number on speed dial, and after a single ring, it was answered.

“It’s operational, James,” Con’s voice said on the other end. “Good shot. Pack up, change, and get off that roof. Sonny is waiting in a red Honda Civic. He’ll get you to the next destination. You sure you know what you’re gonna do here?”

“Positive.” James hung up the phone, satisfied. Meanwhile, in his house in Domino district, Con looked at the readout on his computer, giving him the position of Alfred’s car at all times. He switched the phone to an untraceable line, and made the call.

“Hello, I’d like to hire out a limo for a pickup at 5:00 this afternoon…Yes, the name is Kitagawa. Kosuke Kitagawa…Thank you. Now, I have one more request. I have heard good things about one driver you have, a gaijin by the name of DuBlank. If you could get me him, I promise you I’d make it well worth your while…” When the man on the end of the line expressed his doubt, Con named a figure. Immediately, all doubt was banished.

“Very good, sir. 5:00 it is.”

Alfred pulled up to the curb to see a decidedly old man standing there, stooped with age. His hair was grey, only his temples having hints of the black hair he used to have. His face was wizened and wrinkled with age. From the thick black glasses over his eyes, the cane in his hand, and the seeing-eye dog whose harness he held onto for dear life, he could tell the old man was blind. Standing next to a veritable mountain of luggage, he looked rather pathetic. There was another man there, who strangely enough looked like one of them Triads his clients were always talking about, probably an aide or something. Oh, well, supposedly he was paying well, and had requested Alfred specifically. That sat just fine with the chauffeur.

“Hello, Mr. Kitagawa,” he said in his poorly-accented Japanese. He hadn’t really bothered to pick up the language too well, he admitted. A problem time could fix well enough.

“Oh, I speak some Engurishu,” his English as poorly accented as Alfred’s Japanese. An even trade-off, but Alfred didn’t mind the chance to speak in his native tongue.

“Here, let me help you with those ba-AH, SON OF A BITCH!” Inexplicably, Kitagawa’s seeing-eye dog had suddenly jumped out and bitten DuBlank’s hand as the chauffeur had offered it forward to grab one of the suitcases. He was growling, his hackles raised. Kitagawa tapped his dog with his cane, speaking rapidly in Japanese, too quickly for Alfred to understand. Instead, he focused on his hand, which was now bleeding. Kitagawa bowed low, apologizing profusely.

“I have no idea what came over him,” he was saying very quickly. “Please, forgive me and my companion.” Alfred waved him off impatiently, then realized, his impatience mounting, that Kitagawa couldn’t see the gesture.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he said. Kitagawa reached into his pocket and pulled out a glove. It was leather, but with a cloth interior. He handed it to Alfred.

“Please, take this, as a token of my sorrow,” he said, offering it forth. “Wear it; it will slow the bleeding. My father gave me this glove as part of a set, though I have long ago lost its twin.” Alfred made as if to throw the glove away, but a stern glance from the burly man, Kitagawa’s aide, convinced him otherwise. Grimacing, he slid the thing on. At first, it stung a little; he supposed it was just the nerves rubbing against the inside. However, he had to admit, it felt good to stop the bleeding, and at the same time improve his aesthetic as a mysterious chauffeur.

As the car pulled away, Alfred could have sworn he saw the aide smile slightly through the rearview mirror.

One hour later…

It was 6:00. Alfred had just gotten off work, and was celebrating it by pilfering the store of liquor in his limo. He was on his way to his favorite hangout spot. It was a Friday night, and it was certain that there’d be some nice lady for him to spend his night with.

It suddenly felt hot to Alfred. He rolled down the window, trying to catch a good breeze. As he reached a stoplight, he frantically tore off that stupid glove the old man had given him and threw it out the window. He practically ripped off his tie and the top button of his shirt, to loosen up his clothes, but still nothing. Sweat was dripping down his forehead. He slammed the gas as the light turned green again, trailing red taillight behind him.

His vision was blurry. Something was wrong. Maybe he had eaten or drank something bad, but something was very wrong. There was a light dancing in front of his eyes. Dimly, he recognized it as the light of an oncoming truck. It was headed right for him. Blearily, he tried halfheartedly to turn away, for only now he was realizing that he had been so out of it that he had strayed into the opposite lane. However, his feet and arms seemed like lead. All he managed to do was present his side to the oncoming car.

Back at Con’s house…

“So you coated the inside of the glove with blowfish poison?” Con was saying to James. James grinned at the subtlety of it. If police found traces of poison in his body, which he doubted would be likely, given there was not much body left, they would expect insertion. They’d search for syringes, needles, something like that. They’d never suspect it was a mere leather glove.

“That’s right. Blowfish venom. One hundred fifty times more deadly than curare. A small dosage is lethal. The accident will probably be blamed on alcohol, since the trace amounts of it in his bloodstream will easily overpower what little poison was there.” He grinned, idly flipping a shuriken over in his hand. “And on top of that, the crash, from what we just saw on that computer of yours, totaled his body and car. The CSI guys will have their work cut out for them.” There was a clinking of glasses as Sonny, Con, and James celebrated the kill in Con’s basement.

“Very nice,” Con said. “I gotta hand it to you.”

“Your services will be appreciated by my father. The limo company will know better than to send someone through Chinatown again,” Sonny agreed, nodding.

James grinned and shrugged. Poison always worked…
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Mr. Trout
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Henshin boogy
[ *  *  *  *  * ]
Subtlety- 8
Effectiveness- 4
Creativity- 5
Evidence- 6 (glove)
Minus a point for the other driver

Overall score- 5
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Deleted User
Deleted User

Subtlety- 7
Effectiveness- 5
Creativity- 6
Evidence- 6 (The glove killed ya mate...Should have let it burn up in the crash~))

Overall- 6
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Defiant
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ǝɯ ssıɯ ı ♥

Subtlety: 7 - 1 for other driver
Effectiveness: 7
Creativity: 7 (The poison was a nice touch.)
Evidence: 5



Overall score: 6
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Zero
Unregistered

6+6+5=17

17/3=5.7

OVERALL SCORE: 6
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