ME??

I parked my rusty blue buggy along the dirty curb of an old bakery. The bakery sat opposite my apartment building, across the street. My roommate: Tate Winry owned the bakery. It was more a pass down inheritance from his late parents. The bakery did well too, it was a popular grab n' eat in White London slums. I shut the engine and got out. Surprisingly, the bakery wasn't open. Unlike Tate, I thought. He was the earliest bird in this slums. He'd open his place seven-ish before I even got into shower. No wonder he made so much profit unlike other traders and merchants. Tibet was far west of White London, it was what you'd call an underdog of the great country, though it was the larger of the seven towns. Whilst other White London towns were richly furnished and luxurious, Tibet almost seemed not part of the country at all. It was a slum area, where thugs and bashers thrived, whores ran their business here since it was almost prohibited in other parts of the country, junkies, and all sorts of people including me—a former Suit. 'Suits' were also traders—assassins in a clearer sense. It was a formal name masking the near dread behind it's most common name. I quit that life five years ago. I was what you'd call the best in the trade. Even my moniker 'Ghost' suited me perfectly. I was always and almost never conspicuous. Worked in the shadows, and killed my 'hits' in lightening fast moves. Until I'd began questioning my purpose, 'why kill?' I'd ask myself. I ditched an important hit, and escaped Red London—escaped my past.

I crossed the road, and entered the building. The metal double gate at the entrance was broken, same from five years ago. Nobody bothered to fix it and went on with their activities. In Tibet, security wasn't really a priority. There were hardly law enforcers around. You just had to be able to protect yourself. This called for 'bashers'. Mostly big guys with tattoos assumed this role. You paid them bucks, and they protected you. There was a sort of hierarchy in Tibet too. Dres Tur'Fastu stood at the top. He was a basher turned crime boss who ran many drug and ammunition rings. Then there was Lily Wonka. Last I had seen her, she was taller than most men, blond curls at shoulder length and curvy—your perfect whore. She was in charge of the prostitution rings and brothels Dres owned. The two were also a part of White London's governing council, though I doubted most people knew. They kept Tibet in check most of the time, something the government wanted. I'd worked for Dres before, that's how I got to know about him. He'd wanted a hit on a White London's council member to take his position. In the Six satrapies: Grey London, Red London, Black London, White London, Pink London and New London, political power was everything. People killed, or were killed for one position or the other. Reason why I'd quit as a Suit. Also why, Red London was the most influential in the straphies. They had the power of the Suits and monarchy combined.

I sailed the six flight of stairs and was soon in front of my apartment door, which was ajar. weird. One thing I had learned most of my life as a Suit was been cautious. A single mistake could cost your life or both—yours and your hit. I untucked a flintlock from my waistband—another thing I had also learnt. Slowly, I pulled the door open. My right hand forward, straddling my gun. I held a smaller knife in the other, behind me. The house was unusually quiet. Normally, when Tate wasn't being an early bird to the bakery, he was either singing in the shower or watching loud movies—or noisily preparing breakfast for both of us. I left the cooking to him since the only thing I couldn't cook, was everything. I could fry eggs though. I glided smoothly from the doorway to the kitchen. We shared a two-room apartment. The door opened to the parlor, the TV set on the right. Facing a wall at the far end of the room. Faded sofas sat on either sides and a door to the left led to the kitchen. I scrutinized the entire place checking to see if any glassware or knives were missing. None. But I wasn't still convinced. It was unlike me and Tate to leave the door open or even ajar at any time of the day. I walked out of the kitchen and peered all around the parlor. Nothing unusual still. I lowered guard for a moment. Facing the TV set at the far end on both sides were wooden doors. The left led to my room, the other: Tate's. The bathroom we shared bordered both our rooms. I stepped into Tate's first—still nothing. As I turned to open the bathroom, I noticed a pale blood trail. Jamming it open, Tate lay there in the bath-tub. Sprawled wide on the sides, a towel gagged his mouth. His eyes, White as sheets gazed intently towards me. A think line ran along both sides of his mouth where blood trickled slowly. His mouth was bloody. I turned, and saw his tooth—each one of them—sat on the small counter. The other items formerly on the counter were all on the floor. Colored soaps stained the linoleum floors, White cream drooled from the walls. I turned to look at the tooth, each of them had small wordings on them which read 'We re comin' for U' the others held nothing just bloody flesh on the sides. Simple threats never scared me, but this wasn't simple. The threat was more matter-of-factly. Like the culprit knew I was here, and all other things. Knew I was here? I paused for a moment, different line of thoughts and questions filled my head. Did they know I was alive? How did they find out? They saw the burnt corpse in my car right? Did I leave a trail? How did they find Tate? I couldn't come to a conclusion. For all I knew, after failing to pull the trigger, I had supposedly driven straight into an incoming tanker and burned to death—supposedly. I'd put another in my place, and faked my death. I went as far as leaving my most prized red vintage buggy at the scene. Because anyone who knew me, knew how much I valued the car. Except now, somebody had definitely seen through my lies, and why this time?! Exactly five years prior. The entire site was gory and a particular name popped in mind. Hanselit Gilbert. He was a Suit like me, but more vicious. I doubted he'd quit by this time. He murdered his hits to no end. Some he mutilated, others he made away with chunks of their organ, leaving the main body as gory as possible. If Hanselit was the one after me, then I'd have a hard time. Hanselit, like me was skilled too. And unlike me, he'd have polished his skills better than from five years ago. My line of thoughts continued. Had someone ordered a hit on me? They knew I was alive?. Now wasn't the time to think. I hurried into my room. It was the same way I'd left it—another thing learnt. I paid very close attention to even tidbit details. I estimated around ten minutes before Hanselit came for me. With Tate's death, he'd want to clean up one way or the other whether he liked it or not. And he wouldn't figure that I'd come this early from work. I worked with a small construction company under the alias 'Mac Spewter'. My name really was Ark. Ark Vloseif. I usually worked till around eight, late at night. Tate surely would have told him this after being tortured. He'd likely visit my workplace to confirm or something , and soon come for me. I didn't pack too much. I packed a toothbrush, soap, a polo, spare jean and bundled a silenced Derringer pistol with ammo underneath the clothing. I also put my minor explosive equipment. Never know when they'd come in handy. I strapped a stiletto underneath my sleeves, daggers went to my thighs—two daggers exactly. Better safe, than sorry. The stiletto was a small knife with a long slender blade and narrow tip, the best for stabs. It was a common tool in the 'Suits' world. I tucked the flintlock back in my waistband. Just as I assumed, the door clicked. Whosoever wanted me dead was here already. I heard slow footwork. It seemed whoever was after me, didn't know I was at home. Or was checking to confirm. I had left the door the same way I'd met it. I put a makeshift smoke-screen bomb. A thin line wire tied it to the door knob. As soon as 'whoever' came through the door, it'd set it in motion and provide me a little of five to seven seconds to make an escape. I already had an escape plan in mind. The window was on the right side led to the fire escape stairway, and my apartment was on the third floor. I'd purposely picked one closer to the ground, just me being careful. The windows were Plexiglas, and breaking it would be a hassle, one I didn't dare. I stuck two screwdrivers in. It made smashing through easier. I should have escaped since, but—call it instinct—I wanted to see Hanselit. Somehow I wanted to be sure he was the one after me. The footsteps got closer. I stepped back slowly, ready for my jump. The door burst open, smoke erupted in the air. Three shots dented the wall in my former position. I'd jumped already, crashed hard against the window and plummeted. I caught a wisp of brown strands—brown hair strands and a strange shampoo mix. I suddenly realized that Hanselit wasn't the one after me. Who then?