Disclaimer: I do not buy/sell/own this mindcrack, I just abuse the hell out of it.
There were certain aspects of the job that John Casey found to be quite enjoyable.
He loved getting acclimated to the grips on a new gun, trying on the custom-fit suits when his latest cover called for a posh wardrobe, drinking the local potables, driving the latest cars, dallying with the loveliest ladies.
There were other parts of the job that weren't much to his taste.
Coverage was more often than not a bore and a half, dead bodies stank to high heaven after three days in the endless summer of the California sun and lethal findings were not easy to come by even after September 11th thanks to that nutless wonder, Gerald Ford, and his goddamn executive order back in '76 that effectively castrated the CIA and their ability to coordinate preemptive strikes against persons of interest.
Smarmy little shit hadn't even been elected by the people – he'd been appointed by the Tricky Prick himself, another nutless (and extremely paranoid) wonder who'd managed to royally impair the public's perception of America's intelligence community for all time with his predilection for getting tangled up in ribbons of the magnetic variety.
Greasy little asswipes with big fat mouths like Oliver Stone didn't help either.
There was one part of the job, though, to which he had little-to-no emotional response: operations proposals.
They were simple, straightforward, no-brainer documents: if he or any of his sibling agents needed to dispose of any of the subjects of the operation, he was required to draft a plan with recommendations on how best to do it with a minimum of fuss and attention from local law enforcement.
Some of them were uncomplicated, entertaining even.
Jeff and Lester would be found together in a compromising position in the Cage after having overdosed on Ecstasy while exploring their forbidden love for each other.
Grimes would find his end in a freak bicycle accident in a bad section of Compton while attempting to deal black-market Wiis to the Bloods or the Crips (it depended on who was pissing off the LAPD more than week).
Captain Dumbass would accidentally poison himself with one of his numerous unlabeled Mexican libido supplements.
Walker would be found in a dumpster cut up into a number of sizable pieces, the apparent victim of a serial killer who favored busty blondes in need of butt implants.
In the unlikely event that he would be required to eliminate his mark, Casey thought that a nasty car crash would serve quite nicely to shut Bartowski up for good.
As for Ellie, she was a good woman, the one person he'd met on this op who'd shown him even a modicum of decency and kindness, and she deserved to be killed with gentleness and respect.
To that end, he advocated a wrong place-wrong time incident: she would catch a stray bullet to the head from an attempted robbery and die instantly.
No pain, no suffering.
He'd make sure of it because he'd be the one pulling the trigger.