Just imagine the usual disclaimers.
Hitman was written by Garth Ennis, drawn by John McCrea and published DC-Comics.
Highlander well you know.... I mixed the movie and the TV-series - but I really wanted to kill Kenny.
I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing.
The air was acid, sulfurous, and thick enough to cut with a dull hammer. Well maybe not quite that thick. But close enough, a sharp Hammer might work.
It wasn't exactly my idea of a fun time to be sittin' on a sticky flat roof, heated all day by the Gotham City excuse of a summer sun. A sick orange ball of fire blastin' all day down a smog-red sky. Well it was warm I'll grant you that, more like friggin' hellfires, not to mention the heavy humidity risin' up from the harbor and the river. It felt like blasted Florida except for the smell.
Gotham City stinks. There is no other way to say this. But grow up here, preferably somewhere like the Cauldron, and you get used to it an' it starts tellin' you things, secret things.
The man on the other side of the street hadn't grown up here. He'd shut all the windows of his apartment in the futile hope to keep out the heat, the stink and the humidity. He would be home soon, then he'd try to get some fresh night air in by openin' the windows. Of course that won't do him any good. An' not only 'cause the night air was just as foul.
When the weather is like this the city is boiling. I heard automatic gunfire no two blocks away. A little further south a woman screamed "NO!" and the batsignal threw its desperate shadow against the low hangin' clouds. I withdrew a little further into the shadows and lighted another cigarette. I leaned back as I dragged down the poisonous smoke, and continued watching the house through half-closed eyes. Not that any unwittin' passer-by would notice since I was wearin' my usual big black eyeshades. Black eyeshades, in the middle of the night?
Bit of a fashion victim? one might ask. Well it doesn't hamper my eyesight significantly, whereas lookin' into my deep, black eyes, without whites, iris or pupils, tents to put people off for some reason. I never go without them.
Yup, that's me: Tall, dark an' handsome, all black T-shirt, dark green trenchcoat, black eyeshades and the twin nine millies. Tommy Monaghan, the coolest contract killer in town. The Hitman. Hey, this is Gotham City, you have to make some kind of fashion statement. I'm the best in a field of one. I specialize in Metahuman contracts, for the more dense of you - I whack superfreaks, the big baddies.
I'm also the killer with a conscience. That means I'm pretty choosy with my contracts, and I only kill the bad
guys.
It's a way of livin', I suppose.
The guy on the other side of the street is no Metahuman, but, well, the Gotham Knights lost again, any there my money went down the drain. But he qualifies. Maybe you still remember the New York City Headhunter a few years back. Yeah, the one that was all over the News, 'cause the NYPD never got anything on him. Back then he went by the Name Russell Nash, but my contacts state that his real name seems to be Conner MacLeod. And now it's gettin' interesting the name MacLeod appears in connection with quite a few beheadings in the Pacific Northwest, and even in Europe. But they never got any bulletproof facts on him.
Well I don't need no facts. But he's not goin' to get whacked for somethin' he'd done in the Apple or wherever. My clients were a nice, young couple, belonging to Gothams City's High Society, with good Mob connections.
Most good old Gotham families have such ties. This is a nice town to be rich in. Mr. MacLeod killed their ten
year old adopted son, their only love an' joy since they seemed to be unable to have their own children. The boy, Kenny, was found in the wreckage of the swimmin' hall, his head floatin' in the cool, blue water. So now they want MacLeods, or whatever his name is, head - literally. Well that's Gotham City, for you; a lovely place.
I charged them an extra ten grand.
A car pulled into the parking lot in front of the building. It was MacLeods midnite-blue antique sportscar. I
wondered how some people did that. Not by any right of probability should anyone be able to find a free parking space right in front of his own buildin' not in Downtown Gotham. One of the reasons I don't have a car. The main reason bein' repair fees. It's much more convenient to have your friends' cars perforated by multiple bullet holes. Never to mention all the slime an' gore.
I noticed, that the car trailing him wasn't so lucky. I could see the woman driving the archtypical nondescript car, she wasn't lookin' happy. She slowly drove by hopin' for pastures greener.
Despite the murderous heat MacLeod was wearin' a crumbled old trenchcoat. Ah... well I have to hide two nine-millies, an' stuff, an' at least do I look cool. That guy over there was just looking as if he'd slept in that damn thing for maybe the last three months. But he, too, had somethin' to hide. That lunatic carried a sword under his coat.
I could see all that without even having to lift my head from where I was hidin', X-ray vision. Very neat.
Especially when meetin' gals. But I was too far away to pick up his thoughts. If I tried at this distance I'd risk one hell of a migraine.
The lights in the apartment were switched on only a short moment later. I reached for the smooth, silky coolness of the HK sniper rifle besides me, very much like a caress. I was about to pick her up when I noticed something down on the street. I was not the only one watching my quarry. The woman seemed to have found a place for her car. She was only armed with a camera, somethin' big an' professional, maybe nightvision lenses. The way she moved, so very attentive, was familiar. But I couldn't place her. Well, if she was after MacLeod, she was to late.
But still in time for some nice action an' crime pictures.
Like in the last few days MacLeod went straight for the fridge, got himself a beer, imported, took a big swig and then opened the window. I leaned onto one of the ever present gargoyles an' took careful aim. Soon I'd be at Noonan's, playin' some pool with the guys, havin' some ice-cold beer an' be listenin' to the most stupid duke of hell. MacLeod stood in the open Window, lookin' out into the night.
A wonderful siluhette, a regular snipers dream. I hesitated. From this distance I might not be able to read his thoughts but I picked a bit of his emotions. I felt a tremendous tiredness, combined with a vital, almost electrical energy. Pretty strange. But not exceedingly so compared to demons and men in tights. So
I did what I was taught. breathed out, corrected my aim and very gently pulled the trigger. The shot whispered trough the dusty night air. I got him right between the eyes. His head was flung back, an' gray matter sprayed all over the furniture. The bottle went out of the window an' splattered the watching woman with brown liquid.
"Time to get the gory part done!" I thought, an' went to follow my own advice. This time Tiegel would be right about her boyfriend being covered in blood up to his elbows. An' as opposed to what she might be thinkin' was I not lookin' forward to that part, I'm not a butcher after all.
I deposited the HK in one of the air-vents, were I could fetch her back later. The woman never screamed, despite her witnessing everything.
I was thinkin' who she might be when I entered the house, an' when I checked on her, I found her gone. And so was the friggin' corpse. I mean there was lots of blood an' bits an' pieces of brain, but no friggin' corpse.
Hitman was written by Garth Ennis, drawn by John McCrea and published DC-Comics.
Highlander well you know.... I mixed the movie and the TV-series - but I really wanted to kill Kenny.
I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing.
The air was acid, sulfurous, and thick enough to cut with a dull hammer. Well maybe not quite that thick. But close enough, a sharp Hammer might work.
It wasn't exactly my idea of a fun time to be sittin' on a sticky flat roof, heated all day by the Gotham City excuse of a summer sun. A sick orange ball of fire blastin' all day down a smog-red sky. Well it was warm I'll grant you that, more like friggin' hellfires, not to mention the heavy humidity risin' up from the harbor and the river. It felt like blasted Florida except for the smell.
Gotham City stinks. There is no other way to say this. But grow up here, preferably somewhere like the Cauldron, and you get used to it an' it starts tellin' you things, secret things.
The man on the other side of the street hadn't grown up here. He'd shut all the windows of his apartment in the futile hope to keep out the heat, the stink and the humidity. He would be home soon, then he'd try to get some fresh night air in by openin' the windows. Of course that won't do him any good. An' not only 'cause the night air was just as foul.
When the weather is like this the city is boiling. I heard automatic gunfire no two blocks away. A little further south a woman screamed "NO!" and the batsignal threw its desperate shadow against the low hangin' clouds. I withdrew a little further into the shadows and lighted another cigarette. I leaned back as I dragged down the poisonous smoke, and continued watching the house through half-closed eyes. Not that any unwittin' passer-by would notice since I was wearin' my usual big black eyeshades. Black eyeshades, in the middle of the night?
Bit of a fashion victim? one might ask. Well it doesn't hamper my eyesight significantly, whereas lookin' into my deep, black eyes, without whites, iris or pupils, tents to put people off for some reason. I never go without them.
Yup, that's me: Tall, dark an' handsome, all black T-shirt, dark green trenchcoat, black eyeshades and the twin nine millies. Tommy Monaghan, the coolest contract killer in town. The Hitman. Hey, this is Gotham City, you have to make some kind of fashion statement. I'm the best in a field of one. I specialize in Metahuman contracts, for the more dense of you - I whack superfreaks, the big baddies.
I'm also the killer with a conscience. That means I'm pretty choosy with my contracts, and I only kill the bad
guys.
It's a way of livin', I suppose.
The guy on the other side of the street is no Metahuman, but, well, the Gotham Knights lost again, any there my money went down the drain. But he qualifies. Maybe you still remember the New York City Headhunter a few years back. Yeah, the one that was all over the News, 'cause the NYPD never got anything on him. Back then he went by the Name Russell Nash, but my contacts state that his real name seems to be Conner MacLeod. And now it's gettin' interesting the name MacLeod appears in connection with quite a few beheadings in the Pacific Northwest, and even in Europe. But they never got any bulletproof facts on him.
Well I don't need no facts. But he's not goin' to get whacked for somethin' he'd done in the Apple or wherever. My clients were a nice, young couple, belonging to Gothams City's High Society, with good Mob connections.
Most good old Gotham families have such ties. This is a nice town to be rich in. Mr. MacLeod killed their ten
year old adopted son, their only love an' joy since they seemed to be unable to have their own children. The boy, Kenny, was found in the wreckage of the swimmin' hall, his head floatin' in the cool, blue water. So now they want MacLeods, or whatever his name is, head - literally. Well that's Gotham City, for you; a lovely place.
I charged them an extra ten grand.
A car pulled into the parking lot in front of the building. It was MacLeods midnite-blue antique sportscar. I
wondered how some people did that. Not by any right of probability should anyone be able to find a free parking space right in front of his own buildin' not in Downtown Gotham. One of the reasons I don't have a car. The main reason bein' repair fees. It's much more convenient to have your friends' cars perforated by multiple bullet holes. Never to mention all the slime an' gore.
I noticed, that the car trailing him wasn't so lucky. I could see the woman driving the archtypical nondescript car, she wasn't lookin' happy. She slowly drove by hopin' for pastures greener.
Despite the murderous heat MacLeod was wearin' a crumbled old trenchcoat. Ah... well I have to hide two nine-millies, an' stuff, an' at least do I look cool. That guy over there was just looking as if he'd slept in that damn thing for maybe the last three months. But he, too, had somethin' to hide. That lunatic carried a sword under his coat.
I could see all that without even having to lift my head from where I was hidin', X-ray vision. Very neat.
Especially when meetin' gals. But I was too far away to pick up his thoughts. If I tried at this distance I'd risk one hell of a migraine.
The lights in the apartment were switched on only a short moment later. I reached for the smooth, silky coolness of the HK sniper rifle besides me, very much like a caress. I was about to pick her up when I noticed something down on the street. I was not the only one watching my quarry. The woman seemed to have found a place for her car. She was only armed with a camera, somethin' big an' professional, maybe nightvision lenses. The way she moved, so very attentive, was familiar. But I couldn't place her. Well, if she was after MacLeod, she was to late.
But still in time for some nice action an' crime pictures.
Like in the last few days MacLeod went straight for the fridge, got himself a beer, imported, took a big swig and then opened the window. I leaned onto one of the ever present gargoyles an' took careful aim. Soon I'd be at Noonan's, playin' some pool with the guys, havin' some ice-cold beer an' be listenin' to the most stupid duke of hell. MacLeod stood in the open Window, lookin' out into the night.
A wonderful siluhette, a regular snipers dream. I hesitated. From this distance I might not be able to read his thoughts but I picked a bit of his emotions. I felt a tremendous tiredness, combined with a vital, almost electrical energy. Pretty strange. But not exceedingly so compared to demons and men in tights. So
I did what I was taught. breathed out, corrected my aim and very gently pulled the trigger. The shot whispered trough the dusty night air. I got him right between the eyes. His head was flung back, an' gray matter sprayed all over the furniture. The bottle went out of the window an' splattered the watching woman with brown liquid.
"Time to get the gory part done!" I thought, an' went to follow my own advice. This time Tiegel would be right about her boyfriend being covered in blood up to his elbows. An' as opposed to what she might be thinkin' was I not lookin' forward to that part, I'm not a butcher after all.
I deposited the HK in one of the air-vents, were I could fetch her back later. The woman never screamed, despite her witnessing everything.
I was thinkin' who she might be when I entered the house, an' when I checked on her, I found her gone. And so was the friggin' corpse. I mean there was lots of blood an' bits an' pieces of brain, but no friggin' corpse.