He is waiting on a sun-dappled street in suburban utopia. Waiting to exact a toll on an evil mongering man. He thinks to himself of the job he is to undertake today. One evil man using his ill-gotten gains to eliminate another evil man. There is a queer sense of justice in that the end justifies the means. It matters not to him whose money lines his pockets in order to exact God's will upon the filth of this Earth. What matters to him is that his mission has been resurrected. Like Jesus Christ died and rose again in order to wipe away our iniquities, he will also rise and rid the world of sin and the evil that men do. It is his calling. One once shared by his brother, but now his alone. A legacy handed down from his father and his father's father before him.

He waits in the street for his target to appear. The door slowly opens and three men file out. Oh well, he thinks to himself, 'What is six o' one, half dozen o' the other?' It is just three more defilers of God's will left unable to commit any more unspeakable atrocities.

With his grizzled head bowed, he looks up at the men filing out of the door from under his dark sunglasses. One man, disheveled and bloody, longhaired and bearded; his target, the package boy. The other two men walk behind him with a silent swagger, an indelible air of quiet confidence and purpose in their stride. They are wearing identical naval pea coats and dark sunglasses. Of like height and build, the sunlight glints off their heads, one light and one dark. A long held memory strikes him with a jolt he feels down to his toes. He remembers ruffling the hair upon two wee heads that barely reached him at mid-thigh, one light and one dark. Now is not the time to wallow in those maudlin memories. It's a shame, but it is time.

With a slight shake of his head to release to cobweb of recollection, he throws open his black trench coat to reveal a protective leather vest holding an impressive array of guns, assorted makes and styles, the tools of his trade. Clenching his cigar tightly between his teeth, he reaches down and withdraws the first two guns from their protective sheathes over his abdomen.

He watches with breath coiling tightly in his chest as the two men simultaneously draw their guns. It is like poetry as they aim their weapons over the shoulders of the third man who falls to his knees as he fumbles frantically for the firearm in the waistband of his cacks. Symmetry of movement, an almost feline grace, with guns seeming to be extensions of their hands, these men are truly a sight to behold. After an eternity of tension filled breaths, he begins to shoot. The lads immediately return fire. Bullets are flying everywhere, ricocheting off of cars, burrowing into the bark of trees, shattering windows and splintering wood. The acrid smell of gunpowder heavy in the air.

As he silently unleashes round after round, he muses to himself that watching these two men is like watching a film of his very own past. He and his brother perfectly attuned to one another, meting out the punishment decried by the Lord. An eerie sense of recognition overtakes him. Maybe. What if? How could it be? It is just not possible. But even so, he stays his hand. One of the greatest assassins the world has ever known empties the magazines of six guns and causes naught but minor wounds in three stationary targets. The coincidences cannot be ignored. His instincts, which very rarely fail him, cannot be ignored. Questions must be asked and answers rendered.

He turns amidst the smoke and the screams to disappear like a wraith down the tree-lined street