For twenty-four years, he had done nothing.
Nothing that could be seen as even remotely life-threatening outside of a draft to war.
Not even a single trip or stumble.
My charge was good.
Oh, yeah, I'd assume you wonder what I mean by 'charge'. Well, I'll put it simple.
I'm dead.
I died in Cold War era USA. My name's Joe Wilson. The day I died, I remember too well. April third, nineteen-sixty-five. I'd just been sent on a business trip to New York by my...less than reputable boss, so I could go see some clients he supposedly already knew. They had apparently struck a deal that meant I would be temporarily trading places with one of their employees. I told my kids I'd see them again in three months, and gave my wife a hotline number that would allow her to call me if something went wrong, and I'd be straight back home.
...heh.
To be fair, I think it's kind of ironic that I would have gotten more use out of it.
Anyway, like I was saying, the boss had a pretty bad reputation with the wrong people. When I got to the 'pick-up', I got bundled into the back of a van, cracked in the head, and when I woke up, I was tied into a chair with a camera in front of me.
Then the room lit up, and I died in fire.
Hell, much better than dying like one of those people who just falls asleep and never wakes up.
Understandably, I didn't know what the hell was going on when I woke up in a waiting room. Then a woman appeared, sat beside me, and dropped the bombshell: I'd been murdered. Business didn't go as planned. I was a collateral.
But then I discovered something that no religious book ever said: I got a job. As a spirit, it was my task to watch over a person for their life, with my services no longer being required once they reach seventy years old. Then, I could go to Heaven, and be at peace. Not everyone got this offer: People who do little wrong in their lives go straight in, whilst the general idea of this scheme was to let people redeem themselves before they go in. Those who let their given person die...
...well. Let's just say Hell's just as full as Heaven.
But for me, I should have been happy. I was given a young lad that never really knew his parents, barely saw them...heck, so few people spoke to him that I didn't even know his name anymore. And like I said, he was careful, almost obscenely so. I'd never seen him once stumble, trip, stub his toe, bump his elbow, anything. Nobody bothered him in high school, most people respected him for keeping his mouth shut and that was it. He replied when asked, and always had the answer, but didn't ask questions himself. He was...dull. There was nothing that was remotely exciting about him.
He came from a rich family, so he didn't need to look after himself. He joined the army, fought in Vietnam, but never spoke about it, even when asked. A passing glance I got at his service record says that he had killed a few people. But then again, a huge number of US troops had, and they would mentally degrade over time. My charge hardly even considered that a breakdown was an option: He just lived his life as normal. He did odd jobs, had one friend that called himself 'Beard', an unremarkable apartment, and a DeLorean. He sat on huge amounts of inheritance funds, yet still lived in a tiny apartment that he paid rent for.
Either humble, or just sad.
Then again, he only recently started doing odd jobs. I hadn't been able to go to his last one, since that was the day where I was finishing a Guardian Evaluation Course: I had to go to it once every five years, and it was basically just them checking if I was fit to defend my charge, and updating the skills I didn't use much. I passed, easily, after a few days of recapping my 'Fallen Object' procedures.
But, tonight, my charge was just sitting on his bed reading a book. The Perfect Swing, it was called. Baseball themed. He did join the football team in high school, which meant he could wear his Miami Bees varsity jacket. It still fit, surprisingly, and he loved wearing it: No idea what his attachment to it was, though. In fact, why a book on baseball...?
Just then, the phone rang, my charge quickly flipping down the book and looking up. I was intrigued as well.
Who would be calling?
Beard?
Couldn't be.
Beard holds down a good five jobs. Doubt he'd have time.
So who?
The phone continued to ring, and cautiously, my quiet friend stood up to answer. He moved from the bedroom, to the living room, and then the phone stopped.
Too slow?
Can't be. That was only seven seconds. Normally it rings for fifteen. Perhaps the other person dialled the wrong number? Certainly seemed that way to my charge, who paused, shrugged, and turned to walk back to his room.
Then the answering machine flashed red and let out a loud beep that rang through the apartment. How'd they leave a message if it didn't finish ringing? My charge paused again, and moved back to go and listen to the machine. He moved the phone to his ear, and I leaned in close so I could listen.
"Hi, this is 'Tim' at the bakery! The cookies that you ordered should be delivered by now... A list of ingredients are included. Make sure that you read them carefully!"
Click.
Something's off.
My charge never ordered cookies.
And why would biscuits have instructions?
It was then that my jacketed friend began to make his way to the door, probably to check the delivery. I certainly followed: What if this was a bomb, or something? He doesn't have enemies; could be a random target by some nutjob! I prepared the shield manoeuvre: If it was a bomb, I could take the blast and keep him alive. I stood in front of my charge, as he kneeled down to unwrap the brown box.
I braced myself.
The tape was cut.
I hoped to God it wasn't a bomb.
The lid opened.
And nothing happened.
Not even the smell of cookies. No smell of nitroglycerine, poison, but rubber.
Wait a second...rubber...?
Instead of a bomb, inside the brown package was a rubber chicken mask, and a piece of paper, and nothing else. That was it. I have no idea why the hell my charge bought a rubber chicken mask. Hell, I didn't even know he bought a chicken mask. Was I being inattentive? Had he written an order form for it? Huh. Maybe I blanked once.
But that still doesn't explain why he has a bloody chicken mask.
Without any hesitation, the man I was assigned to defend nonchalantly picked up the mask and looked at the paper. Obviously, I looked as well, and couldn't believe what I was reading.
The target is a briefcase. Discretion is of essence. Leave target at point F - 32, inside the dumpster. Failure is not an option. We'll be watching you.
What the fuck is going on?!
I had no time to find out, because my charge was already walking down the apartment stairs to get in the DeLorean. As soon as the gull wing doors swept open, I dived through to sit in the passenger side. My live companion simply seated himself behind the wheel of his silver sports car, closed the door, and ignited the engine, tearing off down the streets to some unknown location.
...of course, I'd be finding out soon enough where that was.