But I managed to catch a nap this afternoon. Check it:
Colonial America.
I am an assassin, a top class killer of the time. I have been hired to assault an well-guarded estate in the middle of nowhere. A dozen armed men or more stand watch in the black forest, unaware that I have been tasked with their deaths, and the death of the man they are paid handsomely to defend;
With my custom silenced musket, I approach the manor with violent efficiency. My weapon sends four men to Charon. Reloading is a bitch, but I am infatuated with the gift of her quiet accuracy. Then suddenly...
AMBUSH!
The night and tall cedar provide good cover, but any movements continue to break my stealth. Eight men, at least, are on my trail, but there's no truth in this aching shadow-world. Every attempt I make to clear another soul for the afterlife sends the dream wheeling, and the blasts from my beloved rifle seem to grow in volume and shake me into consciousness. Soon it becomes difficult to establish the real threats from the imagined. Who am I? It doesn't matter. Washington must die.
I abandon my retreat, steeled and settling my metaphysical debts as I rush the only lit window I can see. Crashing through would normally be a rookie move, but my options ran out a mile back and I've got killing on the mind. There is a dazed pass from the boredom of reality and back into this perfect fantasy assault, but George is there, rising from his desk; pen in one hand, loaded pistol in the other. No time!
I unsheathe my knife and lunge, feel the sting of a masterful shot through the heart, but connect the point of my shimmering desire with man-flesh.
/groan
//grin
///success
"Whofleck! You're going to be late for work at the pool!"
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