A man, clad in simple clothes, a shirt and jeans, walked along the streets in the dimly lit city. He was a simple man. No special features. He was average weight, average height, dull brown hair, dull brown eyes. The kind of man you wouldn't notice.
Or rather, that was the mask he wore.
Across the city, a man he had spoken to not three days ago suddenly dies of a heart attack. A corrupt businessman, loved by those who fed off his dirty money, despised by society. A man the world was better off without dies alone, by the hands of a man who seemed as average as a man could be. By the hands of a man who was miles away.
He was not an assassin. He had beaten men to a writhing withered pulp for saying so. It was an insult. It was like calling Van Gogh a house painter, or a master sculptor a stone mason. Assassins killed a man, with no thought of the repercussions. He was far from an assassin.
He was a wetboy.
That is what the legends say. The master killers, who could kill a man and leave no trace. They were called wetboys because their hands are forever to be stained by the blood of their first kill. Forever cloaked in shadows, wetboys turn killing into an art. They could meet a man one day, and he would die a week later, from causes no man, no matter how honed his skills were, could ever identify. Some said that those who were truly skilled could vanish into thin air.
This man was a living legend. He was feared the world over, though no one knew his name. He was a wetboy. He was The Death Angel.
 PsykoMutt · Thu Aug 20, 2009 @ 11:32pm · 1 Comments |
