The IOG (Immortal, Omniscient Goth)

The assignment was clear: leave no witnesses. I prided myself on being one of the few men who could be trusted with such thoroughness. When you love what you do, you take it seriously; you do it right, and you strive to be the best. I’m a murderer, and it’s the greatest job I could have asked for. I do it right, and I’m the best. That night’s target was a world leader. I was briefed and did independent research. There was an argument for what the woman was doing. Some might say her heart was in the right place. But she was empowering the wrong people. My employers had tolerated her to a point, but finally decided the time had come for her to be eliminated.

I approached the manor with the bag that I’ve carried since my first mission. There were security systems, but my computer-savvy buddies were responsible for those. I was hired to pull triggers, not hack software. First, I assembled my sniper and killed the guards on the outside. In a way, long shots are harder. Sure, I’m out of eyesight and under cover, but there are a lot of variables. The shots are hard to line up. Other guards notice when one of their own goes down. I need to anticipate reactions. Sometimes I need to find a new position to finish the job. The guards that night didn’t make it easy, but I slaughtered them all. No alarms were raised; a sign that my buddies had pulled through. I disassembled the sniper, brought out the pistol, and got ready for the best parts of the job.

I’ve met others in my line of work who don’t like close combat. They say that no matter how many missions they go on, fear continues to get to them. I never understood why it scares them. I love it. Finding cover, then jumping out and sinking a bullet into someone before they even know I’m there, I love myself more every time I pull it off. It was just me against an entire security team that night, and I beat all of them. I really am the best at what I do. Why wouldn’t I love myself?

I proved my mettle and reveled in it as I made my way through the manor, hitting the guards in the back, neck, and chest, watching them spasm on the floor. It was sweet. I did a full sweep to make sure the whole security team was eliminated before I headed to the main target. I was quiet. She was still asleep when I crept into her bedroom. I sank one silenced round right into her temple.

For what it’s worth, I changed my perspective before I took that shot. She wasn’t armed and in no position to defend herself. Unlike the guards, this wasn’t a fair fight. I acknowledge that. I also thought about all the things she’d done in her life and whispered a quick “congratulations” before putting her down. She was as passionate about her job as I was about mine. It was important to show a moment of respect before her journey ended.

Then I went to her kid’s bedroom. Yes, I kill kids. I do whatever the job requires. No witnesses means no witnesses, not even children. So, just like the guards, and just like my main target, I snuck close to them, aimed my gun at a vulnerable spot, and squeezed the trigger. There were no more moments of respect. They were too young to have a chance to show true passion for anything. They were like weeds – vibrant, thriving, and beautiful in their own way, but they were growing in the wrong place. Time to be pulled, little dandelions.

The job was done, and I felt pure bliss. I thought about the blood that was still oozing out of the bodies. I was ready for a peaceful journey back to headquarters, but before I left the manor, I heard something. A short, low-pitched rumble. I couldn’t identify it at first, didn’t even expect it. Everyone in the house was dead. I expected silence. But I couldn’t ignore it. Somebody had belched.

I’ve always had a good sense of hearing. I was able to track the sound. It led me to a lounge. There was a dark figure in a chair, hunched, elbows on his knees, with a teacup clasped between his hands. He wasn’t looking at me, so I lined up a shot before he saw me. It wasn’t easy. The lights were off, and his clothes were jet black. But his face was covered in white makeup. His dark hair fell in front of his eyes, but the face paint provided enough contrast to aim at his neck.

I’ve shot so many people before. I know the sound a bullet makes when it drives into a body. A blink after I squeezed the trigger, I heard the splat. I was sure that I hit him. But he didn’t slump over. He placed his teacup on a side table.

I shot him again. He didn’t flinch. I approached him, gun drawn. He just looked at me. I only saw one eye clearly, on account of his hair. There was no fear in that eye. He wasn’t impressed by me, or scared of me.

He studied me, then asked, “English?”

I was a little off balance at that point, so it took me a moment to register the question. I focused on the gun in my hands, which always provided a sense of control. “That’s my primary language. I speak others.”

“Me too. The first one I learned was Sanskrit. Did you kill her?”

He sat so calmly and talked so evenly. People were supposed to be afraid of me. I shot him again, right in the throat. At that close range, there was no way I missed. He jolted, but there was no blood. He just kept looking at me. A blank, uncaring gaze.

“I saw it coming.” He gestured for me to take a seat in a nearby chair.

I sat down, gun near my lap. “I killed everyone. How are you still alive?”

He sighed and slumped his shoulders. “I can’t die. Not for lack of trying. Or others trying.”

I raised my pistol again and shot him in the chest.

“Are you done?” He asked, then took another sip from his cup.

I holstered my gun. I wasn’t sure what to make of the situation, but I didn’t sense a threat from him.

“You can ask me questions. Everyone here has asked me something. I’ve answered them all.”

There was only one question on my mind. “Why can’t you die?”

He shrugged. “I just can’t. I’ve been stabbed, speared, shot, even blown up. Nothing sticks.”

He’d mentioned Sanskrit. I’ve never been much of a historian, but I know it’s an ancient language. I asked him how old he was.

“It varies. I was wrinkled for a while, then became younger until I looked seventeen. I aged normally until I was about 30, then reversed until I was a baby and stayed that way for a while. I’ve been going back and forth for a long time.” He lifted a studded sleeve of his jacket. “What do you think I am now? Twenties?”

I wanted to shoot him again, just to scare some emphasis into his voice. “Why are you here?” I asked him.

“People find out about me. The woman you killed heard rumors from some members of the rebel group that she sympathized with so much. We talked about the past. You know, rebellions and revolutions. I’ve seen plenty and used to get involved. I stopped a bunch of assassinations. She wanted me to protect her from being killed. I didn’t make any promises. Immortality alone isn’t so bad, but it sucks when it’s paired with seeing the future.”

That really caught me off-guard. I’m not sure if I said “what?” Even if I didn’t, he continued to explain.

“I can see the general direction of the world or narrow it down to a single person. That’s why I stopped preventing assassinations. As soon as I stopped one, another was planned. It never ends.”

It didn’t seem possible. A part of me wanted to stop listening; to just leave. But I’d shot that man, more than once, and he was still talking. I was inclined to believe everything he said. “You know what happens to me?” I could’ve been more specific, but I had a feeling he knew what I meant. I wanted to know if I ever died on a job.

He leaned toward me, his eyes glazed over. “Your final days are spent in a house, far from your home. The people there don’t accept you, not entirely. You do things for your neighbors, like replace a chain on a girl’s bike. They continue to insult you, playfully, but it bothers you.”

That was the most surprising part yet. “There’s no way.”

“It’s what happens. You become a gringo in a Spanish region. That’s what all your efforts lead to.”

I stood up and placed my gun against his head. “My life isn’t boring; my death won’t be either. A botched job, a well-placed trap, a superior assassin, that’s how I go.”

“If you continue to focus only on yourself and this job, then, yeah, you’re heading for something like that. Here’s the thing, though, my foresight doesn’t just apply to Earth. I know how you die-” he steepled his fingers, “and what happens to you after.”

I lowered my gun. I’ve never been religious. It’s part of what made me so good at my job. Killing is easy when you think of it as letting warm meat get cold. Bodies being more than meat? People having souls? That changes things. “There’s an afterlife?”

He rubbed some hair out of his eyes. “A different plane of existence, yeah.”

“What’s it like?”

“Seriously?” It was the first time he had any feeling in his voice, and it was irritation. “You want me to sit here and tell you what the afterlife is like?”

I thought I’d caught him in a lie. “You shouldn’t be surprised. If you can see the future, you knew I’d ask that question.”

“I knew you’d find me and that we’d talk. I didn’t know how you’d find me, or what you’d ask.”

“Tell me.” I pointed my gun at him again.

“Or what, you’ll keep shooting?”

I did. I emptied the magazine, then reloaded, hoping to find a weak spot that would make him feel pain and blurt the truth. “What’s waiting for me?” I had to know. But I ran out of bullets, and I didn’t even break his skin.

He stood up. I did something I’ve never done before; I backed away. I was afraid of him. Not of what he might do to me. I still didn’t sense any aggression in him. I was afraid of what he was going to say.

“I’ve had conversations like this before. I’ve never told anybody what comes next, because I can only experience it through visions that I have of other people. When I look into my future, I just see loneliness. I’ll be around until the world ends, but I still won’t die with everyone else. I drift quietly through the dark, silent abyss. I envy you for being able to die. It sucks that you can experience it, and I can’t. So, I won’t give you the closure of divulging what’s waiting for you. I’m just going to let you know that something is waiting. When it comes, count your blessings. Your fate is a lot better than mine.”

He left, and I didn’t follow. I couldn’t move. Except for that man, I knew everyone in the house was dead, but I felt like someone was watching me. It’s like I was finally aware of the eyes of God on me, or maybe they were Satan’s, always watching, eagerly waiting for me to drop, so they could do whatever it is they do to souls like mine.

I’ve never told anyone about that night, but since then I’ve felt like a fraud. My record shows only success, but that mission was a crushing failure. He got me. He got me good. Ever since we talked, I haven’t felt the same love from this job. No matter how discreet I am, I feel like I’m being watched every time I’m on duty. It became a distraction, and it made me sloppy.

It made me so sloppy that I messed up. Just a moment of hesitation was enough for me to get hit. It was bad. I’m probably presumed dead, but I made it out. Barely. I found a place to rest, recover, and hide. It’s a small house, near a bunch of Spanish speakers who don’t show me much respect and like to have fun at my expense. Just like the man predicted. He said I’d die here. Maybe my injury catches up with me; it still hurts. Maybe someone from my past will find me; I’ve made enough enemies. Maybe this was his plan all along. He might have planted the thought of an afterlife in my mind to make me do my job poorly. He said he didn’t bother stopping assassinations anymore, but apparently, he cared enough to stop my killing spree.

I’m OK with this being my end. I’m still the best. I only lost to a man who can’t be killed. There’s no shame in that. Besides, maybe I’ll still beat him. He told me to count my blessings when I see the other side. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.

Whoever’s been watching me, whoever’s been judging me, you can come knocking on my door anytime.

I’m ready when you are.