The Hit Man and the Hand Grenade
"This is so stupid," Alphonse whined. "What do you really need a hit man for anyway? All you're doing is writing a novel. And I won't even mention all the danger you're putting us in. What makes you think he won't kill you on the spot for compromising his identity?"
"Don't be daft!" Lestelle told her assistant cheerfully, from her swivel chair in front of her brand new state of the art Gateway computer. Her father, CEO of some multi-million dollar company or another, (Alphonse had developed the ability to space out at will while working for Lestelle, and employed this talent whenever possible.) had gotten it for her the night she had stormed into the dining room and proudly declared her intentions to become a world renowned mystery novelist. Disgustingly proud of his beloved daughter for finally finding a direction in her life, the man had also gotten Lestelle her own cottage in the country. What he had called a 'refuge from the distractions of the city'.
Alphonse had a nasty suspicion that the man was simply glad for an excuse to get rid of his whining, lay about offspring for long periods of time. Not that Alphonse could blame him. Even the most spoiled of rich, daddy's girls should have developed some maturity by the age of twenty-seven
"Alphonse," she said reproachfully, "You make it sound like I'm planning to reveal him to the world. I am capable of some discretion. Anyway, he wouldn't kill me for that. People have to know who they're hiring right? And it's not like I know his real name, just his alias, and ah," she sighed dramatically, "what an alias it is. Prince Charming, a fitting title for the for a killer who's only interest is in killing women who are in love." She took a moment to go all dreamy eyed before continuing. "Besides, I'm paying him after all. And since he technically will be killing someone," at this she glanced down briefly and muttered, "in the novel anyway," before looking up again and continuing, "he's got nothing to complain about. Now I just have to find him."
"And how, oh great novelist, are you going to manage that?" Alphonse asked sarcastically.
"Come now darling, we went over this last night. I have something he wants, bait if you will He won't be able to resist! Besides, we've already tracked him this far. We're in the city. We've made the necessary connections. We've even set up base in a beautiful apartment that I happen to know you love. I saw your face when we walked in. Now all I need is some inspiration!"
"What's the bait?" Alphonse asked, showing his first sign of real interest, even while trying to feign nonchalance.
"I can't tell you that! Then you'll want it too! If my beloved assistant turns on me," she fluttered her eyelashes at him, "then who will do all my dirty work?"
He scowled at her. "What, like cooking, cleaning, laundry? Running your errands, styling your hair, painting your nails, feeding and washing that hell beast you call a dog. Last week you even had me break up with your bloody boyfriend for you!" he snarled. "I signed on to be your research assistant not your slave!"
Poor Alphonse was almost shouting now, but his employer's attention had drifted elsewhere. Typing away at her computer and blissfully oblivious to her assistant's tantrum, she called absently, "Alphonse darling, I've already put up the necessary adds on the 'net, but I need you to take that flyer that I made, it's on the coffee table dear. Take it down to Kinko's and have a few thousand copies made, then have them posted all over the city. I want to make sure that he knows where to find me."
Muttering an endless stream of expletives under his breath, Alphonse snatched the colorful flyer off the coffee table, grabbed his car keys off the computer desk and stalked irritably towards the door, all the while consoling himself with thoughts of the hundred grand Lestelle's father had promised him upon completion of her novel.
Alphonse made sure to slam the door on the way out.
Three days later, Alphonse's situation had not improved. "He's here Princess," the research assistant grumbled, still inwardly seething at the title his employer had demanded he call her. She seemed to feel it
was proper considering who they were looking for.
"Who is?" Lestelle asked absently, giving her assistant a corner of her attention, but not stopping her frantic typing on the computer.
"The applicant Princess." Alphonse answered. At Lestelle's blank look he elaborated. "You know, the one you put out the flyers for, the homicidal criminal, your muse."
Lestelle's blank stare continued a moment before her face suddenly lit up like a light bulb. "Fantastic!" she squealed ecstatically, taking a flying leap that sent her swivel chair spinning before bolting to the window to get a look at her future subject. She gazed intently outside for a moment before turning a confused look on Alphonse. "So…which one is him?"
"All of them Princess." Alphonse responded wearily. "They're all out there claiming to be the Prince."
Lestelle looked out the window again and did a quick headcount. "Fourteen men and…three girls are all supposed to be my Prince?" she asked skeptically.
"They're all claiming to be the Prince," Alphonse corrected primly. "Although I'm pretty sure that most of them are police who are expecting him to show up here and looking to arrest him. It's also probable that a few of them are just looking to get the payment and whatever that …bait… was that you were offering them." The bait thing was still a bit of a sore point with Alphonse. No matter how many times he had asked, Lestelle had refused to tell him what it was. He had attempted to glean a clue from the flyer that she had him copy. He had in fact, been trying so hard that he was certain that he would remember every word on that stupid flyer until the day he died. There had indeed been vague allusions to a mysterious something that his employer apparently possessed, but there had been nothing to indicate what it actually was. Even if no one who had showed up actually knew what the mysterious something was though, Alphonse was fairly sure that the offered pay of two hundred fifty thousand dollars was enough of a lure all by itself.
"Anyway," Alphonse continued, shaking off his own frustration, "It's entirely possible that the real Prince isn't here at all."
"What?" Lestelle exclaimed. "Oh I don't believe that. There's simply no way that he could have resisted my bait." And then the rest of Alphonse's statement seemed to catch up to her. "Oh no!" she cried out horrified. "Policemen? This is horrible! I can't let my darling Prince be arrested! The main character of my novel is based entirely on him. How am I supposed to accurately portray the greatest assassin in the world if I can't get into his head?" she wailed.
Alphonse politely refrained from commenting that perhaps his employer might want to organize her own head before trying to get into someone else's.
"Wait!" Lestelle suddenly called out, apparently through with her little bout of hysteria. "I've got an idea."
"What is it?" Alphonse asked warily. Last time his employer had had an idea, it had taken him a week to get the nail polish out of his hair.
"Well, obviously, there is only one Prince, but I can't just go out there and ask who is. So the first thing we have to do is figure out who the real one is. Then, we'll tell the leftovers that, we weren't actually looking for the real Prince, just someone who seemed most like him. We'll have the real prince, the policemen and those horrid fakes will have nothing, and I'll still be able to make my deadline. It's perfect!" she said confidently.
Nowhere near perfect, Alphonse thought, but at least this plan sounded marginally sane. Still, Alphonse had to ask, "Princess? How are we going to figure out who the real prince is?"
"Leave it to me." Lestelle said. Alphonse watched her walk into her bedroom and a moment later walk out with her shiny silver cell phone. "Get me a phone book will you dear." Lestelle asked before seating herself once again in the swivel chair in front of the computer.
Wordlessly, Alphonse walked into the spacious kitchen and retrieved the local phone book, offering nothing more than an odd look as he handed it to her.
Lestelle accepted it without a thank you and immediately began flipping pages. When she got to the one she wanted, she flipped open the phone and started dialing without even bothering to look at the keypad. "Hello," she said when the other line was picked up, voice sweeter than sugar. "Is this the New York Health and Fitness Center? Great! Listen, I was wondering, what are your policies on renting?"
Two hours later, Alphonse was nothing but confused. "Ah, Princess?" Alphonse asked uncertainly, "How exactly is this supposed to help us determine the right one?" The assistant looked thoughtfully at the seventeen people that were now exercising furiously. At two o'clock p.m. Lestelle had called the New York Health and Fitness Center to ask about rental prices. Now, at four o'clock p.m. that very same day, they were there, all of the seventeen applicants determined to prove that they were fit enough to be Prince, the greatest assassin in the world. Alphonse meanwhile, was determinedly not thinking about what it must have cost to get one of the nicest gyms in New York to kick out all of the people who were already there, most of them probably well paying members, and close down for the rest of the day.
"It's not." Lestelle said calmly, answering her assistant's earlier question. "Exercise has nothing to do with it. Just because the Prince is the greatest assassin in the world doesn't mean he's the greatest athlete."
Pleasantly surprised by his employer's sudden ability to think logically, Alphonse asked, "Then why are you bothering with this if it's so pointless? And if this isn't the test, then how are you going to determine who the real Prince is?"
"You're not listening Alphonse." Lestelle answered. "I said this isn't the real test. I never said that it was pointless. The real test comes when they're all asleep."
"When they're asleep?" Alphonse questioned confusedly. Lestelle ignored him.
"Oh yes," she said, a frightening smile starting to curl her lips. "And when the test is through and my beloved Prince is found, I'll be able to start the interview. I'll ask question after question, digging deeper and deeper into his head until he doesn't know reality from fiction. Until fiction becomes reality and the character becomes him completely. Until his very soul is trapped within the pages of my book. Literary immortality enslaved for an eternity to me! Mwahahahahaha-" slam
"Wow, sorry about that sweetheart." Alphonse uncurled from the fetal position he had assumed during Lestelle's little episode to see an old, balding, bespectacled man who was so thin he looked as though a strong wind would break him in half. The man was standing in the doorway, the doorknob still in his hand and looking down abashedly at something on the ground. Lowering his gaze, Alphonse was alarmed to find his employer dazed and crumpled at the man's feet. "You really shouldn't be standing right in front of the door like that though," the old man said to Lestelle.
"Ow! Alphonse," she whined plaintively. Alphonse correctly interpreted this as a plea for help and moved to lift his employer to her feet. "Alright," she said irritably once she was standing again, "Who are you? Wait, I don't care who you are. How did you get in here and when are you going to leave?' Lestelle asked rudely.
"Now there's no need to be offensive missy," The old man said in a lecturing tone. "I already apologized, and anyway, it's your own fault for standing in front of the door like that. As for what I'm doing here, well, first I went to your apartment, but you weren't there. When I asked the landlord, he told me you had come here. So here I am."
"That's all very nice," Lestelle snapped irritably, "but why are you here?"
"Well isn't it obvious? I'm Prince." The old man gave her a gap toothed grin and reached behind himself to pull a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket. He smoothed it out and showed it to her. "I noticed your flyer and did a little research and figured that anyone who traveled so far and spent so much money looking for me deserved to get what they were looking for. Well that, and I am of course terribly flattered that someone wants to put me in a book. By the way, what was that mysterious something that you were talking about in the flyer?" he asked curiously.
"You don't know either?" Alphonse asked, apparently delighted to finally find someone who shared his frustration. "I've been asking her for days, but she won't say a-"
"Both of you shut up!" Lestelle screamed. "All right old man, if you really are Prince, then get out there and prove it to me!" With that, the novelist grabbed the shocked old man by the front of his shirt and shoved him out onto the main area of the gym before slamming the office door behind him. Alphonse looked out the glass window and watched as the old man gave an almost hurt look back toward the door he had just been pushed through before shuffling off to the equipment area.
"Are you sure that was a good idea?" Alphonse asked worriedly. "He might hurt himself."
Lestelle was unmoved. She seemed personally offended that a creature such as that would dare claim to be her beloved Prince. "If he is who he says he is, then a couple hours of exercise won't hurt him."
"What if he's not?" Alphonse asked accusingly. "What if he's just a confused old man?"
"Then we'll find out soon enough," she answered, pulling out her cell phone and starting to dial.
Seven hours later, it was looking as though Alphonse had indeed been right. It was eleven o'clock at night, and Alphonse and the remaining applicants were standing in the lobby of one of the swankiest hotels in New York while they waited for Lestelle to finish checking them in. I say 'remaining' applicants because nine of the original seventeen had given up within the first five hours of the workout. The remaining eight looked exhausted and ready to fall over any second. Alphonse wasn't particularly surprised by this. What he was surprised by was the fact that the old man was still there as well. The old man did not look exhausted so much as half dead. When Alphonse had questioned him, the old man had simply replied that if he had to work for seven hours, then he was at least going to get his free night at a nice hotel.
Alphonse looked up at the click of heels and saw his employer approaching. With a sigh of relief, he gathered his stuff together and got ready to go up to his room, signaling the applicants to do the same. "Alright everyone ," Lestelle called out cheerfully. "We're all checked in, so put your stuff down and get comfortable."
Alphonse was confused. "Get comfortable?" he asked. "Why do we need to get comfortable in the lobby if we're checked in already?"
"Don't worry darling, it's only for the next twenty minutes or so. Just until the maids have finished setting everything up."
There was a collective groan of protests from the applicants as they realized they would have to wait even longer before being able to pass out comfortably.
Lestelle glared at them. "Oh shut up the lot of you." she snapped irritably. "You bloody freeloaders should be grateful. I'm the one paying for this so if I tell you to wait, you'll wait and you'll like it."
"Excuse me Miss Lestelle," Lestelle turned and gave her attention to a timid and rather confused looking young maid who had just appeared beside her. The maid continued, "We're actually done with the additions you requested, so your party can go up whenever you're ready.
Lestelle grinned at her. "Fantastic!" she squealed, suddenly cheerful, before once again shattering the applicants' hopes, "Alright guys," she said, grabbing the mysterious big black bag that she had picked up from her apartment on the way to the hotel, "You sit tight here for a few minutes and I'll be right back. Alphonse, entertain them."
With that, she left, skipping gleefully towards the elevator and vanishing behind the sliding metal doors. The applicants looked expectantly at Alphonse.
Ten minutes, and an extremely embarrassing charades session later, Lestelle reappeared, sans black bag but otherwise normal. "All right guys, come on up," she said.
As soon as the applicants got to their rooms, they all collapsed immediately onto the beds, instantly unconscious. None of them had been aware enough to notice anything strange about their rooms. Alphonse did though. After tucking the last applicant in, Alphonse stopped his employer in the hallway and asked curiously, "Princess? Why were there six mattresses on each bed?"
"Well darling," Lestelle answered carelessly, "after all of there hard work today, don't you think that they deserve to be as comfortable as possible?"
Alphonse couldn't really argue with that. He bid his employer good night and went into his own room. Only mildly disappointed at the lack of five extra mattresses, he brushed his teeth, changed his clothes, climbed into the bed, and joined all the rest in deep, peaceful sleep.
All the rest, but one. One in the party's rest was not peaceful at all. What little sleep that he got was filled with nightmares. The well honed danger instinct screaming at him that something was wrong. Something was a threat. He finally got up and searched the room. He checked the locks and the windows. He checked around corners and through shelves. He even searched the drawers and the complementary hotel mini bar, but he could find nothing that would warrant such irrational panic. Finally giving up, he climbed back up into the enlarged bed and tried unsuccessfully to convince himself to relax, settling down for a long, sleepless night.
Around noon the next morning, all of the applicants (and Lestelle) had finally managed to drag themselves out of bed and into the lobby for breakfast. All of them looked cheerful and utterly refreshed after a solid thirteen hours of sleep. All of them except Lestelle herself, who was looking particularly annoyed. All the while wondering what had gotten into him and where on earth the sudden concern had come from, Alphonse wandered over to his employer. "What's wrong Princess?" he asked. Lestelle ignored him.
"So, you all slept well last night I hope?" She asked the applicants, her expression making it clear that she hoped for exactly the opposite. There were general murmurs of agreement all over the room before a loud bang.
"Well, I certainly didn't." The old man snarled, slamming the door behind him. "I don't know what you did to that room, but I didn't get a wink of sleep." It was quite obviously true. The old man looked terrible. Heavy purple-black bags under sunken eyes were too dark against the sickly pallor of too pale skin. The man was half hunched over as though he couldn't support his own weight. And his voice was rough and hoarse from exhaustion.
Lestelle's eyes fastened hungrily on the old man like a snake staring at a wounded bird. "Alright people," she said, not shifting her gaze an inch, "auditions are over, and you're all useless. I'm going to start over somewhere else. Thank you for participating. Check out time is noon."
Ignoring the outraged cries of the other applicants and the confused questions of Alphonse, she grabbed her assistant's hand and rose to her feet. "You," she snarled murderously at the old man, using her other hand to point imperiously at him, then at the elevator. "I need to talk to you old man," she said, dragging a protesting Alphonse into the elevator, and holding the doors open while the old man followed her inside. A tense silence reigned throughout the whole ride up and through the walk down the hallway, all the way until Lestelle had closed and locked the sturdy door of her imperial suite behind them.
She finally let go of her assistants hand and turned to face the old man. Alphonse was just beginning to wonder if he was going to be an accessory to murder when suddenly, Lestelle's murderous scowl faded and melted into a sunny smile. She favored the old man with a look of utter adoration before all but leaping into his arms. "Prince!" she shrieked ecstatically. "Oh my Prince Charming I've found you at last!"
Alphonse was dumbfounded. "What?" he squeaked.
The old man smirked. "So you finally figured it out eh?" he grinned. He gave the novelist an exhausted smile and reached up to ruffle her hair fondly before seeming to realize something. He tightened his grip on her hair and pulled back until she was looking him in the face. "Wait. How did you finally figure it out?" he asked suspiciously.
"Oh easy," she replied cheerfully, a shake of her head easily releasing her hair from his grip. "As a hit man you're around a lot of danger right? So I figured that you must have developed some sort of danger instinct, a sixth sense if you will, to help keep you safe, especially considering how long you've been around. Once I figured that out, I knew you wouldn't let yourself relax if there was any danger around. Then it was just a matter of getting a controllable danger into each of the hotel rooms. And I knew I would be able to tell who was Prince, and who was a fake."
"All right," Alphonse said, entering the conversation. "Then what was the danger?"
"Well," Lestelle answered sweetly, I knew that it had to be dangerous enough to worry about, but small enough to hide, so," she smiled charmingly at Prince, "I put a hand grenade under the mattresses!"
Both Alphonse and Prince were totally frozen for a moment before, "You put a hand grenade under my mattress? Are you insane? If anyone had made a wrong move, you would have been a murderer!"
"You're a murderer." Lestelle pointed out practically. "And anyway, that's what the six mattresses were for. Duh. Now, are you gonna help me with my book or not?"
Prince thought about it for a moment. "All right," he agreed. They immediately began discussing book ideas.
And so all was well and the mysteries were solved. All except one.
"Wait!" Alphonse interrupted, turning to Lestelle. "You never did tell me. What was the bait?" The Prince made a curious noise as well. Lestelle looked amused.
"Oh come on, you mean neither of you ever figured it out? It was just a lure. You know to spark his curiosity." She spread empty fingers with an impish grin. "After all, what would I have that would interest Prince Charming himself?"
Outside the imperial suite, a timid looking young maid walked faster passed the closed door, as the sounds of tortured groans and sadistic laughter followed her down the hall.
Six months later, Lestelle Crawford's first book, "The Hit Man and the Hand Grenade", hit number one on the Bestsellers chart.
A/N: This was actually an assignment that I did for my Creative Writing class. I am sort of proud of it, but none of my classmates seemed to appreciate it. sulks Anyway, I got the idea to put it up here from my narling friend EnchantedBlood. You can check out her Rapunzel fairytale to, it's fantastic!
I've got some vague ideas for continuing this, but I'm not goining to bother posting the rest unless someone reviews asking for it.
Even if you don't want me to continue, heck, even if you absolutely hated it, PLEASE tell me what you thought!
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