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Chapter Six:

Max POV

"Dylan!" I yelled, "You fucking ass! Did you not hear me? The dude asked me out on a date! A freaking date!"

In case your just typically wondering, I'm screaming my fucking brains out at this douche bag over the phone.

"You agreed, of course?" He asked. Oh, I will murder him.

"What the hell? What else was I supposed to say, moron!" I was getting really, really pissed by the way he took all this so casually. Did he not understand that I could get caught? I'll get sent to jail! I'll die alone, and hungry in a cage. And, then, I'll go to hell.

And for those smart aleck-y readers out there, who are all like, "You could have just said no," your wrong. I couldn't of done that, because I have absolutelyno experience in this area, whatsoever- so I obviously went by instinct! And, I really had no sane reason to say no. I'm sure: "But, I have to kill you," would've been a low-blow.

"Perfect." Dylan finally stated.

"What are you-!" I started, but was immediately cut off.

"Max, don't you see? This is the perfect opportunity for you." He told me. "You get all cozy with him for a little while, then, when he least expects it, you kill him. Piece of cake, eh?"

Oh.

Oh.

Well, now I get it.

". . . But, he's the guy that-" I was annoyingly cut off again, of course.

"Yeah, I know." He said simply, "Is their a problem?" He asked.

Well, um, yeah. . . "No."

"Then call me when your done." He said it like it was just some little chore. "Enough with these stupid phone calls. Your wasting my minutes!" He yelled.Freaking cheapskate. And the line went dead.

What the hell am I gonna do?

It was now fifteen minutes to six.

Fang said he was coming to pick me up at "six o'clock sharp".

And I'm pulling my hair out over here, worrying my freaking guts out!

But, It was "the perfect opportunity", right? . . . Nevertheless, how should I conceive it? Should I shoot him? Knife him? Bare-handed murder him? Hmmm, being an assassin really drains all your energy. Anyways, I'm not gonna shoot him; too loud. Definitely no knifing here- way too much blood. And beating the living crap out of him wouldn't be too great either.

Well? Ugh. I'm seriously loosing it. . . Wait. I got it. . . I got it! Poison! That would be just perfect.

Damn, I sound so evil.

I speedily dashed to my suit case, which was stuffed in the small crammed hotel closet. I opened the tiny hidden zipper on bottop of the leather bag, and rummaged through the items until I found what I needed so desperately.

The little plastic jar read:

CONTAMINATION SYRUP (just another fancy word for poison). Ingredients contain: Castor Bean oil (which is a highly effective and fatal plant, by the way), Heroin, (I'm sure you could guess on that), and various acids that can severely exterminate skin, or any material, if in physical contact with either for longer than a period of four minutes.

Then, of course:

WARNING: If contact does occur, wash skin with cleaning water thoroughly and fully, to prevent any future damage.

Well, this was great. I had my plan down pat.

Then, I heard three precisely familiar taps on my hotel room door. I hurriedly stuffed the small poison bottle into my sweatshirt pocket, stood up, and brushed myself off. He was here.

Then it occurred to me:

I was seventeen years old.

I was going on my first date.

With the person I was going to kill.

I was sweating. My face felt clammy, red and hot. And I hoped and prayed Fang hadn't noticed anything yet.

He had driven me here, to his house. A first date at his house. . . Not to be rude or anything, since I haven't really ever been on a date before, but weren't first dates usually like, dinner and a movie, or something? Am I correct? Well, I guess it didn't really make a difference. I shouldn't be caring, anyway. Maybe I'd have a better chance of killing him here.

As my thoughts raged, I heard a dog bark, somewhere in the house.

"Welcome to the Collins house hold." Fang said dramatically, expanding his arms for emphasis. I picked my head up, slowly, and forced myself to be interested in the seemingly dull, boring furniture.

"It's really pretty. Thanks." I tried, kindly, after a moment.

Fang smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. It seemed forced. Like me. Maybe, he didn't really want me here. Well, why'd he ask me out, then?

This made my feel loads more uncomfortable.

"I made some food, I'll just go get it." He told me. He cooked? I nodded at him, and grinned for the sake of it. Same old, same old. "Have a seat." He told me. I did as he said.

He was back before I knew it, setting down two cups of what seemed to be Coke. His forced smile colored his face, once again, as he said, "I hope you like baked ziti, I'll be right back."

Yes, I thought greedily.

I fake smiled, until he finally left the room. I then hastily grabbed the poison jar from inside my sweatshirt pocket and forced the stubborn lid off. Shakily, I accidentally over pored some of the syrup into his glass of ice cold Coca Cola, but luckily, manged to get it back in my pocket, just as he walked in with two little silver tin trays. I glanced back at the now poisonous cup ofCoke for a split second; the liquids had all blended together perfectly.

But, in a way, I felt just so. . . so. . . wrong? No. That would be unnatural. and bad. Horribly, horribly bad.

I admit, for once in my hellish life, I was scared. Yes, scared. What if he saw right through me? What if he found out? I'd be dead. Literally done for. . I soon felt a bead of sweat slowly trickle down my creased forehead. I hesitantly, tried to wipe it off. God, he's gonna know!

Fang sat down and smiled that same halfhearted smile. I smiled back, knowingly, and looked down for the first time to notice the food. "Thanks," I muttered again.

But, then it hit me: I'm lactose intolerant! Yeah, I know, you don't normally meet a lactose intolerant assassin everyday. Hey, well, now you could say youdid.

I stuck my fork into the saucy cheese and noodles absently, and pretended to eat it. "This is really good." I told Fang, politely, after a few nibbles. I smiled at him, and tried my best to sort of un-force it- make it look some what natural, you know?

I was so bad at this. They should really make classes on this kind of stuff. Honestly, magazines aren't all that helpful.

So, I just sat there awkwardly- my stomach aching from the lack of food- and just watched Fang. I couldn't help but notice his slender, toned cheek bones, the gorgeous color of his skin, the nice arch of his eyebrows, his perfect black hair.

It really sucked that he had to die.

I felt my stomach's hungry, anticipated growl, and it was almost painful. Why'd he had to make freaking baked ziti? God created cows for a reason! Andchicken! Heck, even fish would've been fine! But, then again, it's not like this date was real.

Do I seriously have to remind myself I was only here to fucking kill him? And he hadn't even touched the damn poison-Coke yet. I knew he was getting thirsty, though. I was getting thirsty. So, to get things going, I picked up my own iced glass and took four long gulps; probably looking horribly unattractive. The soda tickled my throat as it made it's way down.

Well, drink it! I chanted in my head, not that Fang had any chance of hearing.

I knew it would take approximatly 4 minutes for the poison to take full effect- just enough time for me to run out of the house with no witnesses to prove me guilty. I really should thank him for such convenience. But, then again. . .

That's when it happened: Everything seemed to be in slow motion. Fang's hand slowly let go of his fork, rising up to meet that nice, ice cold, very appetizing glass of Coca Cola.

The soda that would be the death of him.

But, suddenly, a seemingly remote-controlled toy rocket swooped in out of absolutely nowhere, and knocked the "cup of death" all over the table.

Crap.

I know what you're thinking, now: What the hell?

Don't worry about it, same here.

But, believe it or not, that wasn't even the worst part.

The worst part was that It had spilled all over me.

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