For a brief period during the later months of 2010, I served as one of the top assassins-for-hire in North East England. Since none of the best criminal psychologists in the country could make sense of the diary I kept during that time, they returned it to me. The damn fools.
October 4th 2010
The day started out like any other; a hearty breakfast consisting of chocolate and crisps, followed by 2-3 hours of shouting at my CV and becursing how I used my spare time during my undergraduate degree to only play Modern Warfare.
However, whilst I was ritually sacrificing crude effigies of my referees to the gods of full-time employment, I was rudely interrupted by my computer- which I had left switched on the previous night just for the purposes of this story- informing me that I had an email from some group called the ‘Assassins Society’. Instantly remembering everything about assassins that I’d learnt from Mercenaries Creed (or whatever that game was called), I searched for five hours through the message for the hidden code written by Leonardo di Vinci, and eventually found that they wanted me to join their group, which I’d apparently signed up for at the ‘Freshers Fair’. Suddenly I was overwhelmed with emotion; real-life assassins want me to become one of their number as a shadowy vengeful figure of the night, the unseen terror stalking the hearts and minds of the criminals infesting the city. Sure, there were a couple of hundred other people in the mailing list but I could tell the email was meant for me.
October 5th 2010
I only just noticed that they spelt my name wrong; in fact, it’s a different name entirely. Probing enquiries about the intended recipient of the email, however, revealed that he’s a girl with a girly name and a girly car and a girly girlfriend. He’s a girl is what I’m trying to say.
October 22nd 2010
Following my first contact by the shadowy leaders of the DSU Assassins (the ‘DSU’ no doubt standing for ‘Destroy and Sabotage U’), no more messages had been exchanged between us. I could only assume this was because they were under surveillance by MI5, or the CIA, or the SAS, or GCHQ, or some other shady group with a wicked-awesome sounding acronym for a name, and wanted to limit contact between us, lest we be captured. To be honest, I’m secretly glad in a way; my Kevlar vest, grenades, camouflage fatigues, and samurai sword that I ordered off eBay haven’t arrived, and the strange men in black suits taking photos of my house from their car make me not want to go out anymore.
November 14th 2010
A-ha! Contact! According to the message I’ve received, a meeting of all assassins is due to take place today at a top secret location: the ‘park’. This must, of course, be where their super-secret HQ is buried under. As this was also the first chance I had to impress my fellow urban-ninjas, I quickly donned the fatigues and Kevlar vest, and jumped over the fence behind my house into my neighbour’s garden, samurai sword gripped between my teeth. Whilst climbing over the fence, I also tore my Kevlar on a sticky-out nail, which was a bit of a pain seeing as I still had to make a mask and cape for my costume. How did Batman manage to organise his time so well?
PS: Must also research into the cost of slaves
I stealthily made my way to the park on the bus and, after being greeted there by the combined cast of ‘The Expendables’ (if they all took BSc Computer Science though), was informed that I would be taking part in a war-games exercise against the other half of the society, who were stationed across the other side of the park. However, as excited as I was to meet my fellow killers, I was surprised to find that they were only armed with Nerf guns; no wonder they were all staring at my samurai sword out of pure jealousy. Nevertheless, intending for at least one of this squad to be sufficiently armed, I asked where the real guns were kept; this question was answered only by silent stares. Upon attempting to further clarify this point, I was greeted by more stares and a dart to the throat by the President. I don’t think he likes me.
***** 3 Hours Later *****
I’m still in the tree. I know those guys are still out there; every so often, I hear a high-pitched scream, which is then always immediately followed by the noise of someone landing in a deep hole then calling me a ‘bitch’. My knowledge of Vietnam-era mantraps has surprised even myself.
November 15th 2010
I arrived back from the ill-fated mission at 6am, after being woken up by a dog walker. Excitedly, I checked my emails to see whether my performance yesterday was what they were expecting from a top-level killing machine like me. What I actually found was an email from the President which calmly suggested that if I ever contacted him again, he would track me down and flat-out murder me, a sentiment which I quite frankly didn’t expect from someone with a pathetically-small knowledge of booby traps and a predilection for carrying round a dart gun which could only fire even pathetically-smaller foam darts. To that sentiment, he also attached a picture of a leg in a cast, but I suspect he got that off Google.
November 20th 2010
The Job Centre still hasn’t sent me that stuff about becoming a self-employed assassin. Dejected and still unclear about the level of tax I need to pay, I cook a fry-up and print some ceremonial CV’s.