The Wrong Career

Jack Ragthun had once made a career choice; it cost him his wife, who was at the time pregnant with his daughter, his friends, and most of his former life. He was incredibly smart and had no significantly different upbringing from anybody else, and especially no criminal record, which made him perfectly qualified for this job. He was a professional hitman for an underground organization that went so deep that even he didn't understand all its workings. But he didn't have to; he simply had to know who the head of the organization, Mr. Chef, wanted dead and how, if there was any way in particular. The career had cost him his life but made him monetarily sound, and at least he could still go to baseball games.

Yes, he could still go to baseball games, which was where he sat at this precise moment. Three rows up from the first-base side dugout, his favorite seat. A fly ball off the bat of the home team third baseman ended the sixth, and thus many people sifted out of the stands to buy concessions or use the restrooms. But there was one man who sifted into the seat right behind Jack, a tall man who brought his mouth close to Jack's ear and talked quietly.

"The lion has awakened in the jungle tonight." Jack looked at the man, saw the familiar face behind the shades and then handed him the envelope containing the objects he was asked to retrieve from his last victim. Once this was done, he engaged the man in conversation.

"You realize you look ridiculous in that outfit, don't you Mike?"

"I'm trying to blend in with your baseball fans?"

"You don't blend very well in a bright green muscle shirt when the home team's colors are red and blue. Mr. Chef would lose his mind if he saw you like this."

"At least I left my trench coat at home this time. And where do you get off talking about Mr. Chef? Be glad he doesn't hear you talking about what he would or wouldn't think; remember, you haven't been too reliable lately."

"I've been more reliable to him than anybody over the past seven years, and I've paid my dues. And you can tell him, I'm ready to be finished."

"Why? You are his first and best assassin in his mind. What makes you so ready to be done?"

"This job has cost me more than I bargained for."

"Then why did you accept it in the first place?" Jack was silent for a second.

"Money," he said, as though embarrassed by the fact that he succumbed to such a deadly sin. "I was broke and trying to provide for my wife."

"So it isn't as some say that you simply enjoy killing people?"

"No, but after awhile, you learn not to care about people who won't be around much longer." The two men sat for a moment while the first out in the top of the seventh was made. "Why did you take the job?"

"See that is where you and I differ. I do take pleasure in take one's life and suffering no consequences, but the big man rarely sends me to do deeds. I am most often just a messenger."

"That's because of that precise attitude; you are too reckless. Remember Mr. Peterson?"

"That was my first job and I got away."

"Barely, and only because Mr. Chef personally came to rescue you. Now, you got what you came for, and if you refuse to relay my sentiments to our head, then I will do it myself. But go away." A man returned from somewhere in the stadium to claim the seat in which Mike had sat down.

"Hey, buddy. You're in my seat." Mike stood; the man sat.

"That's okay, I'm leaving now anyway. And Jack, I'm sure there will be some way you get out of the business." With that the tall man named Mike stormed up the steps and disappeared from sight. As a strikeout was registered for the second out, Jack decided it was time to empty his bladder, so he got up and headed for the nearest men's room.

Upon entering, the radio announcer was detailing the events of the game over the speakers in the restroom. "Carlos Javier steps up to the plate, hitting .287 so far this year. The pitch is on the way, and it's ball one." Jack found a urinal and began his evacuation. "Now the pitcher sets and here's the delivery. Swung on and it's a ground ball to the shortstop, who picks it up and throws..." Suddenly, the entire room trembled as though an earthquake had hit or an airplane had flown to low to the ground. Jack got irritated as he accidentally sprinkled himself with urine. "Oh my God!...what the... ... ... ... ... ... ..." Several seconds passed with no sound from the speakers. Jack finished his business and went to the sink to look in the mirror at his sprinkled pants. Then, "Ladies and gentlemen... there has just been... ... ... an explosion!... ... ... from the first-base side dugout!... ... ... ... I don't know what's happening... ... ... ... ... ... ... I'll try to keep explaining as the scene becomes clearer..."

Jack realized what had just been said and bolted from the bathroom. A cloud of smoke loomed over the location where Jack had been seated, and somehow, he knew that the target of the explosion was standing in his shoes.

And he was wearing his own shoes.

On an instinct, he knew that he had to talk to somebody in the organization, but now that there was nobody he could trust, he would be forced to assume that anybody at anytime could become a new target. He ran all the way out to his car as he contemplated what to do. Finally, as he turned the key in the ignition and heard the radio still announcing details from inside the stadium, he peeled out of the parking lot, calling Mr. Chef to arrange a meeting location.
***

Jack was to meet Mr. Chef at a rundown house near the south end of town. When he arrived, Mr. Chef's car waited outside along with one other vehicle that Jack recognized as being involved in the organization. He pulled in right behind this vehicle, turned off the car, and got out. As he walked to the front door, he noticed the dried up grass and the rock path to the backyard that had not been weeded in a long time. He entered the house to find Mr. Chef, two other hitmen and a man cowering on the couch. Mr. Chef was speaking to the man.

"So, you've told me everything? No missing information now? I don't want to cut off your nose now."

"Yes, yes! I swear! That's everything! Please!"

"Ok, then." Behind Mr. Chef, Jack stepped on a creaky floorboard, and he turned to look at his employee. "Jack, wonderful to see you still alive. Boys," Mr. Chef motioned to his other men to take care of the man on the couch. He and Jack went into the next room as a gunshot erupted from the one they had just left. "Don't mind them; we have a crisis on our hands."

"Gee, you think." Behind the two, one of the other hitmen got a large garbage bag out from underneath the sink, then went back to the room.

"It seems as though Mike was exclusively behind the bombing today; he wants you dead."

"So it wasn't you that ordered him to do so?" From the other room, an extended rustle of plastic could be heard.

"Of course not, you're my main man. Here's what happened, or at least what we could get out of that guy before we, uh, you know..."

"Yeah, I do."

"We had to cut off an ear, a foot, and seven fingers to get it out of him too. He said that he was a member of the maintenance crew at the ballfield. As you can see, he's not very well off not for lack of a good salary, but because he's gotten himself into financial trouble. Well, Mike apparently approached him with a fantastic deal, and all he had to do was stick his little homemade bomb underneath your seat."

"How'd he figure out which one was mine?" The other two hitmen were now dragging out the body in the bag, as once they dropped it, and then they banged it on several objects on the way out, including the door frame.

"You're a season ticket holder. They got records. Anyway, he did so, and none of us was the wiser, except for Mike made a slight mistake."

"What was that?" One of the hitmen came back into the house and spoke to Mr. Chef.

"We're going to go dispose of the body now boss."

"Terrific." The man left and Mr. Chef continued his talk to Jack. "Anyway, Mike left this poor sucker's name and number on a piece of paper in my office, and Joe Shmoe decided to take the day off just to be sure he wasn;t a victim of the explosion. By the time we got the story out of him, it was too late to stop the events from taking place, but you survived."

"I shouldn't have; it was just a well-timed bathroom break."

"Well, I have a mission for you, and it's a much a mission assigned by me as by you."

"Go kill Mike?"

"Precisely."

"How did I know?" Jack responded sarcastically.

"I figure that it's the best thing to do: send my angered best guy in to finish the job. But be careful, he's treacherous."

"Alright, but this is my last job. After this, I'm done."

"We'll talk about that when you return."

With that, Jack exited the building and made his way to his car. Tonight would mark the last job of his career and he was going to retire with a bang. As he started his car and pulled away from the house, he dialed the number in his phone titled Jungle King. He waited for an answer, and when he got it, sparked another conversation.

"Hey, Mikey, I'm throwing a little midnight party tonight, and you're invited...... I'll tell you how I survived..."
***

Mike Gunther felt no remorse for what he had done earlier that day. He was absolutely pleased with himself that he had executed a mission without the help of Mr. Chef, Jack, or anyone else associated with the organization. He had managed to do away with the only man standing in his way for the job he wanted, or at least almost. He hadn't counted on the fact that his target would get up and go to the bathroom right before his bomb was set to go off. But none of that mattered now; he was going to finish this fight as soon as his target pulled into the abandoned parking garage right next to the ocean. The only objects in the place were his car, himself, his assistant Danny, and a large gathering of crates that were often stored by the harbor workers when there was nowhere else to put them.

Now, he waited for the midnight meeting between himself and Jack, and hoped that what Jack didn't know-that Mike had an extra man-would kill him. Nervously, his much shorter and much younger assistant fidgeted with his pocket watch.

"What time is it?" The deep voice from the tall man scared Danny for a moment.

"11:48."

"He'll be here right at 12 so be ready by then. Let's go over this once more. When he arrives, you be hiding somewhere neither of us can see nor hear you. He and I will have some talking to do. And when we're done, I'll say..."

"'I've got a little surprise of my own for you.'"

"Or something along those lines so that it doesn't sound so bizarre." Mike looked at his cell phone. "11:49: time for you to disappear into the background."

With that, Danny hid out of sight and out of mind. Mike passed seven of the remaining eight minutes contemplating whether he would let the little twerp shoot him or take the kill for himself. Either way, as long as Jack wasn't breathing by the end of the rendezvous, he would be happy. The time was spent in silence on the almost-ground level floor of the parking garage. At 11:59, screeching tires came into earshot, but it was 12:00 exactly when the car entered the building.

"Perfect." Jack came to a locked wheel halt about thirty feet from Mike and got out, allowing Mike to be the first one to speak. "How you survived, I have no idea."

"I guess I just have luck on my side."

"So you didn't know then?"

"No, actually. It was pretty clever what you did, but you should really make sure you don't leave any kind of incriminating evidence behind you. You see, I know exactly how you pulled it off because you left your associate's name and number in Mr. Chef's office, and by the time I met up with Mr. Chef, he had already been tracked down and the story 'coaxed' from him. Now, I have to say, Mr. Chef is pretty ticked that you tried to off his best hitman, and so here I am, for my own pleasure in killing you, and for his."

"You are the most annoying piece of shit that I've ever had to deal with, but deal with you I will."

"Well, that's what you think, but I'm Jack Ragthun. And you're going to have to try a hell of a lot harder to kill me now."

"I blew up part of a stadium to try and kill you, but I guess that still wasn't enough. But no matter, I'll get you now!"

A creak to Jack's left made him turn and fire three shots. At the same instant, Mike raised his gun and fired five times while Danny sprang from behind the crates and got off one shot before hiding away from Jack's wrath. As all three took up hiding spots, Jack was first to break the silence.

"You coward, pulling the two-on-one job. In my time, the job including the man advantage was me sent to kill two."

"And those two were never as good as us two, so there should only be one corpse." Mike fired twice more at Jack.

"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'll take full blame." Jack fired several more times at each of his opponents, which not knowing their exact locations, did little good. He could tell that the kid was sneaking up on his left somewhere, but didn't know when or where he would reemerge. In the meantime, Mike finished off the round as Jack reloaded his weapon.

"So tell me something Mike."

"Yeah, what's that?"

"Is the kid an amateur?" Jack took the clip he had just unloaded and flipped it up in front of his actual position about ten feet. Danny, who had been edging closer to Jack the entire time, was blinded by the crate he had his back to. So when he heard the clip hit the ground, he spun around and aimed for the spot where the noise had come from. He got off one shot toward the center of the room before Jack hit him twice in the chest and once in the head. "I guess so."

Danny fell off the crates and into a bloody heap, a fate which elicited a remark from Mike.

"You son of a... that was a cheap trick."

"And bringing two men to a gunfight isn't a cheap trick. It looks like there'll be at least two bodies leaving here tonight."

"Three bodies will leave, but only one's going to be alive. And that'll be me!"

"Bring it on, then!"

With that, the two goliaths emerged from their hiding places and out into the openas they ran across the room, each reserved to live, each reserved to die. All thought was drowned out by the sounds that indicated fully loaded guns quickly approaching empty, each man not expecting to see the other when it came time to reload. Twenty-two shots were fired across the room in approximately eight seconds. When the two men reached respective pillars on the other side of the room, Mike surrendered.

"You are a worthy adversary, and I am fallen."

"Well, you should not have tried to kill a man larger than you."

"Larger in stature of course, for although I am bigger than you, you are the stronger opponent." Mike threw his gun away from himself, and Jack approached him. "Would you do me just one last favor, Jack?"

"What's that?"

"Shoot me now, so that I may die with less pain."

"In our organization, traitors should be meant to suffer a great deal."

"But I don't want to live through this because it will be straight to prison, and I will be forced to talk about our organization."

"Point well taken." Jack raised his gun and placed one bullet in it. A second later, it was the scrap of metal in Mike's brain that finally took away his thoughts. Then, Jack opened his jacket to find himself shot six times in the torso, a death sentence. As a cool gust of wind blew from the sea, Jack fell, and felt a warmth overcome his body. He did not walk away from the parking garage that day, but rather a spirit, if he still had one rose and left to go wherever it wanted. He was free from his wrong career.