Perry had a gift for bringing misfortune to others. Much like some people are talented fighters or runners or can throw pieces of rubbish into bins far away, Perry was good at generating misfortune. Never to himself, unless you count the suffering of people around you as misfortune, which, i suppose if you are a normal empathetic person, you would.

Perry was inadvertently responsible for the death of his mother, father, brother, cousin, two friends, fiancée and two pet dogs. There were many more on his 'body count' but these were the ones that bothered him.

It took him a long time to fully understand the scope of his curse. After his brother died from being struck by lightning in the middle of a crowded festival, he developed a reputation of being cursed by the devil. And it wasn't until his two best friends and fiancée all died in the worst hot air balloon disaster of the year, leaving only him alive, was when he began to believe it himself.

He now lived alone, in the middle of the woods. Besides the insects and trees there was no living thing within a mile of him. As, naturally, anything that came close would be beaten by the stick of destiny until they ran off or died. Perry only ever left his solitary confinement when he needed money, over the years he had garnered a reputation as the most effective assassin in the world. Every target died; no suspicion ever fell on him.

He read through the letters; all were addressed to "Fate". That was his alias. He perused the pleas for murder until he found one that he liked. A mobster that had killed an important member of a rival gang. He always tried to only go after other criminals.

Perry got on the train heading for the city. As soon as he entered, he could hear things going wrong. Bag strings breaking, phones malfunctioning, birds slamming into windows. He had to change trains several times. He didn't want to risk a derailment.

Once he got out of the train, he took a taxi to the restaurant where the mobster usually spent time. It only took one flat tire and a gas up to get there. Perry hoped he could get this guy killed quickly, another reason he went after criminals was that their dangerous lifestyles led to more catastrophic misfortunes

He walked in calmly, hoping it would be empty, to minimize collateral damage. He sighed, seeing it was mostly crowded, but in the back, he identified his target. Luckily for Perry, there was an empty table right next to him. He gestured to waiter asking to be seated there.

As he sat down, he could almost feel the sinister fog of fate slowly acting on all the living being around him, it almost had a sense of delight like it were a child that had just found some new playmates.

A waiter carrying a bottle of wine tripped and fell near his target. "Hey, what the fuck is wrong with you." the mobster said. Standing up to get a better look at the damage, showing off his blue pinstripe suit.

"I am so sorry, I will clean this up." the waiter mumbled obsequiously.

"That was a 1960 merlot, you just broke, you stupid fucking monkey." the mobster yelled out. He paused and leaned down to eat a bit of a meatball and continued to berate the waiter. "I want you fucking gone, don't serve here anymore, I don't want to see..." he stopped midway, to grab his throat.

Here we go, Perry thought to himself. The men around the mobster all began to panic as it became obvious, he was choking on the meatball. His face started turning blue as one of the men attempted to do the Heimlich to free the lodged meat. After a few minutes, the mobster coughed out the meatball. God damn it, Perry thought, thinking it was going to be that easy.

"Jesus Christ!" the Mobster yelled, grabbing a napkin to wipe the sweat of his face. "Almost done by a meat ball, Johnny. Can you believe that?" the man named Johnny who had expertly performed the Heimlich just shrugged his shoulders. "That was crazy boss."

Two more hours, Perry sat at the restaurant. Three more bottles had broken, one more person had choked, and one person seemed to have gotten food poisoning. Perry could see the manager in the corner screaming at his staff for their perceived incompetence.

Finally, Perry got his break. Outside the restaurant a commotion grabbed his attention, there were some men, who also looked like gangsters. Pointing inside the restaurant, right at his target. From the looks of them, they didn't seem to be his friends.

Perry didn't have long to ponder, before machine gun fire rattled through the restaurant. It seemed that everybody around the mobster was hit. Perry fell on the ground, flipping the table and using it for cover. He looked over to see the mobster had taken a bullet in the head and was dead as a rock.

Sadly, he wasn't the only one, bodies were strewn across the floor. Perry considered standing up and trying to get himself killed. But he was too much of a coward, instead he slinked out of the back. Took a cab back to the station and made his way back to his isolated life. It only took four trains, one flat tire, one broken bag strap and one tree falling on the tracks.

The first time I didn't kill someone, I was 11. I still stand by the fact that it IS NOT ME. If anyone is left without a parent, or a sibling, or a friend, it's not my problem. Sometimes, bad things happen, you know, and who are you gonna blame? Monsters? Aliens? God? Whatever your list is, Otto Luck is NOT ON IT.

That day, Mrs. Aguilar was passing back our tests for 5th period science. Patricia had taken one look at her grade and groaned, head in hands.

"What's wrong, Trish?" I'd asked.

"Nothing. Just -- Nothing. Oh crap, my parents are going to kill me. Can you kill me first, Otto?"

"Trish, you'll be fine," I had said exasperatedly. "One bad grade isn't going to change your life."

How wrong I was.

"Just make sure to do it fast. Nothing painful or anything."

"Okay, whatever. You're ridiculous." Just to make her shut up; I didn’t like her joking about dying. And she had looked so sad. She was really pretty when she smiled, and I thought maybe it would make her feel better if I joked along with her.

Six hours later, her parents called the cops, worried for their daughter who still wasn't home. Nine hours later, she was found. Two hundred and eighty-four hours later, the funeral was held.

Apparently it was sudden cardiac arrest. If it was any consolation, the doctors said, she didn't suffer.

I didn't figure it out until the second time. It was just a stupid argument. It probably started with a TV show or some other pointless teenage angst, I don't know. All I know is after several expletives and one unhinged, hateful, "I wish you were dead!" my mom slipped on the floor and the kitchen knife in her hand spun and spun the light catching on its edge glinting like a shooting star falling to the earth god it was beautiful

It was an accident, that much was true. But the difference between true and truth is like the difference between a beating heart and blood pooling on the kitchen floor.

I couldn't live with myself, though. A few years later, I told a therapist everything.

"Okay, what you're going through is a common thing. Many people suffer from the same condition, Otto. It's called survivor's guilt."

"I wish that squirrel outside exploded into a million pieces," I'd responded. I would've given him a nicer example if he hadn't been so condescending. The government was knocking on my door shortly after.

It's been four targets so far. Not people, but targets. Something about that puts a chill down my spine. Something it does to you, the knowledge that someone is dead because of you. The latest one, I didn't even feel anything but resignation. Maybe that's why so many people are dying lately. We've gone from fists to rocks, from rocks to clubs, from clubs to swords, from swords to guns, from guns to bombs. The farther away, the easier it is to make someone kill.

I still have a choice, though. Still one out.

Maybe Patricia had the right idea all along. She just had the wrong person.

You’ve got mail!

A new assignment. I don’t get much say in the matter for my targets. My manager is the one that operates the business off the dark web for me. He knows that I get my job done and we both get paid. No one knows how I take out my targets, hell, I barely understand it myself. This life-style chose me, not the other way around.

Assignment: California Politician Location: New York Square (for holiday) Style: The Special Date: December 22, 6 pm. 3 days. Name: James Winrow Description: 6’4” Caucasian Male, short black hair, butt chin with mole under left eye. Of course a picture is sent along with the description.

I pack a few bags and book a plane for New York. I intend to stay there several days. Not because the target is for 3 days from now, but to not look suspicious. I’m going on holiday.

The flight was bittersweet. I got an annoying kid behind my seat. He was constantly crying and yelling the whole flight. At least until the middle of the night when he started gasping for air. I was easily woken up not being able to sleep comfortably to begin with, and I knew right away what was going on. I grabbed for my overhead bag and pulled out the spare epi. He was back to normal in just a minute. The mother who was panicking was grateful. We exchanged pleasantries and information so she can show her appreciation in the future. This is the third time that’s happened. But it got the kid to quiet down for the rest of the flight.

Finally I make it to the hotel. I could relax for a bit. The 22nd came around quick but the jet lag worked in my favor. I was wide awake at 6pm. Ready to head to New York Square and search for tall and handsome. He wasn’t hard to find. He was surrounded by regular people and security all causing a minor commotion but nothing too grandiose.

But then, another message from Mr. Manager. “Reservation at Carmine’s for 7pm” Nothing new, Mr. Manager always has my back and things don’t go smoothly right from the start. James and his wife must be going to Carmine’s for dinner. Might as well have a good dinner on my own holiday. I was sat with a direct view of James. I stared and stared. Eventually, it happened again. The wall slammed into James so suddenly it didn’t even register he was instantly dead. Totally unexplainable, it’s not like some drunk driver drove through the wall, it simply exploded and crushed only him. The wife, other guests, staff, no one else was hurt.

No one was allowed to leave. I didn’t expect it to be such a massive impact, then again I still don’t understand how it all works myself. I was checked out by EMTs and questioned by police. I locked eyes with a man wearing a grey suit. Not police but had the authority of one. I heard him say something about me when I was finally allowed to leave.

You’ve got mail!

Assignment: Cartel Mobster Location: Florida Miami Beach Style: Accident Date: July 15, 2pm. Tomorrow Name: Bill Asher Description: 5’7” Caucasian Male, bald, scar across nose, jewelry usually, tattoo on right fist says “Ally” across the nuckles. No picture, but the description should be plenty.

I would have preferred a plane but sometimes driving is simply how you have to do things. On the way there another incident occurred. I was gasing up at a station and decided to go inside for a drink. I wasn’t thinking too hard just running a monotonous kind of errand so to speak. Just before getting out of the car the lights inside went dark. There was only one other car there so it had to be the person working there. I walked inside and in the darkness I could see an elderly man having a seizure right in front of the register. I honestly couldn’t be bothered. I picked up a drink from the cooler, pressed the silent alarm behind the counter that every station has, and just went on my way.

I was tired after a several hour drive, but I knew the main part of the job was done. Odd to think about given this is a hitman job, the driving was the hard part. It didn’t take me long to scour the beach for the short bald man. He had a full crew with him. I’d have to keep my distance, but there was a lot to do at and near the beach, all I had to do was be able to see him. Or maybe it’s within ear shot, or just in the vicinity, honestly hard to say. But I just kept an eye on him and his crew.

Eventually they decided to go to some clubs, it was obvious they were getting high and doing all sorts. I kept my cool and didn’t stand out as best I could. What I wasn’t expecting was that Bill and his whole damn crew would keel over all at once. Some kind of electric shock from a nearby base amp shot out towards the crew and struck all of them at once. Live together, die together was all I could think.

Once again, people weren’t allowed to leave. What do you know, Mr. Grey Suit locked eyes with me just as he did before. I could tell he recognized me, I just had to hope he didn’t know where. It had been several months so what are the odds he remembers. A lot more questioning and rummaging through property as a person of interest wasn’t that great. But eventually I was let go.

In my jacket was an envelope. I opened it in the car. “From: Mr. M” I opened up the envelope and inside was 20k in cash. I might need a new manager.

"How do you do it, Eldirn?" Sommelson set a frosty mug of beer before me. "Just whisper it to me. I swear I won't tell any of this lot!" he gestured to the others around the table. Laughter and smiles, and a few shaking heads. It was a friendly group, for the most part, and the mood was light. I hadn't planned to spend the night among friends, but I'd unexpectedly closed my 500th contract earlier in the day, and tradition demanded the occasion be marked by copious drinking.

They were an eclectic bunch, a nearly random cross section of the Fed. In the old days, most of these folks wouldn't have been caught breathing in a room with one another. But since the formation of the Federated Guilds of Assassins and Hit Persons (aka the Fed), all sorts of Life Termination Workers were protected by the rules of mutual non-engagement. Now we were free to gather safely, taking turns buying rounds and sharing those bizarre on-the-job stories that only other contract killers could appreciate.

"Come on Eldirn, you're going to have to give it up at some point." Jones was always quick to join in on the nagging. He was a longstanding proponent of the old "Method Guilds", in which assassins formed associations based on their professional modus operandi. Most of the Method Guilds had died out after the formation of the Fed. People still had their preferred methods (Jones was a devout garrotist), but most preferred having a diverse set of tools at their disposal. "It's just so... unnatural" Jones went on. "I don't think it's right to close a contract when your target isn't even on the same continent as you. It's all so... So spooky. Every time you put your name on a contract, it's the same story. You hang around the pub, chit chatting for a few days and suddenly the bloke drops dead from a heart attack, or dies in a train wreck or chokes to death on his lunch. The least you can do is tell us how you make it happen. We're all professionals here - we'll understand."

I smiled at Jones. "Maybe you would, Jonesy. Maybe you would. Or maybe you'd brand me a witch and burn me at the stake." Sommelson nodded in agreement. "No, I think I'm going to keep this to myself for now. Maybe... Maybe when I hit one thousand I'll retire and let you all in on my secret." No one had ever hit a thousand.

"I'm just saying..." Jones went on "If I didn't know you so well I'd say it smacks of subcontracting." An imperceptible hush fell over the table.

Slowly, I set down my beer. "Jonesy, you know I have nothing but the highest respect for your work. Truly. There is no purer way to take a life than with your own two hands. But that's not how I work. I know my contract closures are... unconventional. But you must admit, even subcontracting couldn't explain it. My closure rate is 100%. Even you don't have a closure rate that high, and there is no way I could maintain a perfect closure rate if I were working with subs."

Jones breathed in deeply, held it for a moment, and blew out an exasperated sigh. He smiled. "You're right. I can't argue with that. But I still want to know."

"Tell you what Jonesy, I'll make you a promise. One day I'll tell you. When I'm on my deathbed. Or when you're on yours, whichever comes first - I'll be there and I'll tell you the truth."

"Sure, Eldirn. When we're old and gray." Jones drained his beer, pushed back his chair and stood up. "Alright, next round's on me. Who's empty?"

I chuckled to myself as I walked back to my flat. It had been a good night, and they were good friends. Even Jones. After all, he was right to be suspicious. My methods really weren't what Jones would call "natural."

I arrived home shortly before dawn. In the corner, beside my desk hung a long black cloak. A soft glow emanated from beneath the it. I picked up the cloak and slung it over the back of my chair, as my scythe bathed the room in a pulsing blue light. The week's reaping assignments had dropped. Time to get to work.

As the sun rose outside, I pored through the open contract catalog, meticulously cross referencing the list of reaping assignments. Jonesy might prefer working with his hands, and that was something I could respect. But I was a man, if you can consider me a man, of data and probability. Sure enough, the odds were on my side. An open contract for one Roger Stentov, age 46, called for termination within five business days. Unfortunately for Mr. Stentov, and fortunately for me, he was scheduled for reaping in just two days time. An unfortunate consequence of shoddy wiring and too many grow lamps. Who says you can't kill two birds with one stone. Give me the right data sets and I'll get the whole flock with one rock.

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

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