Assassination Interlude Earth 6178

Declan Mason was crunching numbers. It was something that he was very good at, and unlike most people in his position he could almost see a pattern weave itself before him before he took a really hard look at the information on hand. He loved it, it was just like decoding a puzzle, only instead of doing it for fun he got paid for it, and damn did he get paid. At this particular moment he could almost see that he was going to be earning a huge paycheck from this forensic analysis that he was doing. He could see seven figures coming from this job easily, and he hadn’t even gotten to the meat of the material yet! He could tell in his gut that this was going to be fun and lucrative. When he finished this evening he was going to call a few girls, hit a club or two and get his living on. He worked hard, and still took time to savor every drop he could squeeze out of life. Data forensics was the easiest job in the world for him. He saw patterns everywhere, and they were the real deal.

He looked at his watch and figured he had about two more hours of analysis before he could call it a night; so he pulled out his cell phone and texted the first girl he could think of, Susan Hawke, and that was only because she came with a very amenable twin sister. He could never remember her name, not that it mattered, ten minutes after meeting and he would be partying so hard he wouldn’t know his own name.

He placed the phone beside his mouse and returned his attention to the screen. There was a time for work, and a time for play. Mason knew how to keep the two separate. He casually clicked open another folder and began examining its contents. He found that he was humming Maxwell’s Silver Hammer by the Rolling Stones. There was just something about Paul McCartney, the lead singer, that gave him an ear worm.

He had just gotten to the part where the judge addressed Rose and Valerie when he heard a noise from behind him. He realized that something was wrong, since he was locked in his private office, and that there was nothing behind his office chair that could have contributed to the sound’s creation. He whirled about in his chair and was shocked to actually see a figure standing behind him.

The shadowed form that had been behind him was motionless. He could see that it was dressed in what he assumed to be dark hooded cloak and what appeared to be black monk’s robes. The clothing smoldered shadowed streams of umber smoke, and gently billowed as if they were blown by an unfelt wind. Mason immediately noticed that the figures hands were skeletal. They were bleach white and completely void of flesh. He noted immediately that a red sword was held in the death’s head’s left hand. He wasn’t an expert, but it was huge and he would have said it would have taken a normal man both hands to wield it properly. The right hand gripped a Sig Sauer, which he only recognized from his time spent playing video games, that came equipped with a silencer.

“Ah’m truly sorry that I have to do this, Mister Mason. Ah truly am, but it cannot be helped.” The voice was a deep and sonorous tone that was flavored by a southern, possibly Alabaman, accent. Mason watched in shock as the gun was levelled at his forehead, and did nothing to stop the gun from firing. There was a wumph, a quick flash of light, and a thud as Mason’s body hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. The skeletal man holstered the weapon on his right side, and stepped over the body. Two boney fingers touched the man’s throat and stayed there for about twenty seconds before he retracted them.

The robed assassin raised the sword in his left hand, and in one swift and fluid motion severed the dead man’s head from its body. His eyes traced the decapitated pate as it arced across the room and landed with a soft squish on the plush blue carpet. “Always, Ah say, ALWAYS,” he said the last word with a deep emphasis, “Do the double tap.” He sheathed his blade, seemingly unworried about any blood that might be left on its edge, and stepped over to the computer. He stared at it intently; reading every line as if it were some secret codex that held occult information he had been desperately searching for his whole life. He sighed disappointedly and held the power button down until it shut off. He then began rifling through the papers on the desk, only stopping when a small item caught his interest. Had his head not been a yellowed hollow eyed skull a rictus grin would have spread across his face. He reached over and picked up the small plastic snow globe that had been acting as a paperweight for what he assumed were important documents. He turned it so that he could see the interior scene. He glass ball showed a small wood cabin in a forest scene with a bear in front of the lodging. A scroll at the front of globe had script that read: Summer in Wisconsin.

The gaunt figure whispered, “Malachi 3:10,” and a green screen appeared about a foot and a half from his face, “Bring the whole tithe into the storehouse, so that there may be food in My house, and test Me now in this," says the LORD of hosts, "if I will not open for you the windows of heaven and pour out for you a blessing until it overflows.” So saying he hit the word INVENTORY on the screen and the globe vanished from his palm. If there had been another soul alive in the room when he spoke that verse they would have noticed that his southern accent had completely vanished. Seconds later, so had he.