I Never Miss A Shot

• Emily Drinnan, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2019

Between the verdure of my mischief lay pristine morals, despite what they told you.
They’re twisted but set; the epitome of unexpected. There are many views of morals, and I’ve been told mine is anything but ordinary.
Crystallin elegance hueing my glass. The tipsy nupur riddling any space for uncomforting exchanges. My intelligence permits me to hold the beverage as an adornment rather than take a life-threatening sip.
Life. The relevance of life forms my morals. It makes me decide worth, as the coin one flips in crisis. It’s a playing field I grasp the flesh of every risk on. “Go big and take consequence” – a motto I found useful in the academy, listed after, “Control life; not reversed.’
A vital piece of advice I found as a high-class assassin.
To get ahead you don’t just get ahead. You get others behind. Do life properly, or not at all.
Especially with one shot at it.
A loaded L-shape sags in my dinner jacket, cool as steel while I palm it.
I never miss a shot.
“Hendrix.”
Boss Hudson is as oblivious as they come, sipping and slipping out of sobriety with delight of the evening’s success. Ren, his favoured employee, snubs at passer-byers from Hudson’s shoulder he’s always clipped a meter from; a Rolex angled to view by laced arms, complementing the way he looks down upon other staff.
Both cockalorums crowned money and snobby lip-rises on the pedestal of life – as if pretending to be above anyone would quench satisfaction, yet truthfully dried intelligence. I school my thoughts and turn.
“Yes, sir?”
“Give me a drink.”
I offer a humble smile. Pungent odour seems to steam off his tongue, the rims of his discarded drinks glittering by the chandelier’s touch.
It’s my amber drink I hand that Hudson’s too drunk to refute. By serving it, I serve its intended purpose, then face Ren. He stares with an approximation of vertigo but eyes me haughtily enough to assure whatever dominance he believed he had. I counter a nod and saunter off.
A thump.
A shatter.
A clamour of gasps.
I pose in the hallway as cries of questions and concern sail to me in gusts. Ren’s shrills assault my ears even from meters distance.
Typical.
I roll my eyes, busied with awaiting the next plan. A buzz in my earpiece alerts the predicted call.
“The chandelier is loosened.”
The arrogancy is cuddled around Hudson as the light-piece heavens them.
Money, wealth, power.
Life isn’t that.
Life isn’t rich. Not with one shot at it.
My 22 LR fires and cuts the light’s chain-holder. Gloriously, it melts to the huddle with splitting screams.
I never miss a shot.
Every worker and their effect upon the corporation dies as they do. I bust a glass, vaulting out, and latch to the pending helicopter of my association.
On the top floor, Dives-Corp lies in ruins.
Another company of slave-labour manufacture, lies in ruins.
My morals are the only thing standing that day.