Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > A Day in the Life of a Platinum Hitman
A Day in the Life of a Platinum Hitman
1 reviewWhat happens when you mix two hitmen together?
1Exciting
A/N: Holy shit guys, I'm back! :D Sorry about leaving you all. Before I start this story , I'd like to point out that I decided to pick up Your Surrender again, so by the end of this week, expect a new chapter!
I sat at the bar, miserable about being in a stupid, claustrophobic (but fabulously first class) train through the Alps. As you could visibly tell from the bags that hung from my lower eyelids and my more than droopy smile, my life wasn’t exactly fitting to my tastes.
So, as I sat, drinking my miserable ‘on the house for a handsome man’ Pina Colada, in miserably cold Austria, I watched him walk over.
The word him swirled in my mind, as I knew and could already tell that this was an extraordinary man. He had his sights on me the whole time I was sitting at the bar, which admittedly made me very paranoid per usual. It was as if he was mustering courage to approach me, but I wasn’t that fond of myself to be thinking so.
Although this man looked entirely Italian with his sexy, strong jaw structure and the very brown tint of his hair, he had an American accent to rival mine, the only American on the train besides myself.
“Can I get a Harvey Wallbanger, please?” they mysterious Italian-American man asked the bartender, with perfect English and a perfect American accent as previously described.
“Buon pomeriggio, Mr. Way. A drink, at this early hour?” The bartender, the name engraved on the shiny plastic tag on her white button up shirt read: Natalia.
“You know how I am,” he said, almost in a boasting manner, pushing his glasses higher up on his nose.
“You come here often?” I asked the Italian, Mr. Way according to Natalia, sipping my drink as I watched him intently.
“Yes, unfortunately,” he said with a light chuckle, leaning towards me slightly as if to share a secret. “I travel for work.”
“So do I,” I laughed, shaking my head and gulping a mouthful of the sugared-down drink, ignoring the brain freeze that invaded my head.
“Ah,” he said in empathy, “what do you do?”
I did have a fake job for the sole fact that you don’t run around, telling people that you’re a hired gun. But for some reason, I didn’t want to lie to this strange man. I had to anyway, whether I liked it or not.
Ah yes, I am a soldier of fortune. You’ll hear more about that later on.
“I’m a photographer,” I said happily, my lie as smooth as always. I still made extra sure that I added any small detail to add to the effect.
His eyebrows scrunched up momentarily, no doubt picking up some sort of sense that I was lying. If he really did, it would mean that either he was some sort of FBI or CIA agent. Because I’m that good at lying.
“Hmmph,” he said calmly, sipping his drink as he reflected my words. I nodded my head and played along with my charade with absolutely no indicators that I was lying. “And how long have you been doing this… photography?”
He knew I was lying. Somehow, he was as good as me or better. The pause before photography told me that he knew I was trying to hide my real profession.
“Since high school,” I said, and since lying was no longer useful in this situation, I changed the subject. “What do you do?”
He chuckled. “The same thing as you.”
Natalia looked up from cleaning a glass cup to stare at Mr. Way intently. I looked back and forth at the both of them.
“Photography?” I asked innocently, placing my drink on the bar just in case things got messy. I added a slight furrow of my eyebrows to touch off the innocent tone.
Mr. Way looked at Natalia and nodded. “How about we go somewhere else,” he whispered, the strong Italian accent startling me, “privately.”
The Italian man set down his glasses, clearly fake now, and walked towards the sleeping quarters of the train. To avoid any suspicions of fellow train riders, I followed him into the train car, but I got my fists ready in case he was out to kill me.
He stopped at the room before mine, suspiciously one room to the left of room 22,and he swiped the hotel-like card through the reader, and held the door open for me.
I stepped inside, instantly aware of every piece of furniture, every sprawled out piece of clothing on the floor, every step he made from behind me.
“You’re not much of a cleaner,” I commented, stepping over a pair of boxers to reach the plush couch outfitting the wall with the window.
“I’m not much of anything, signore,” he said, with a particular bitterness I couldn’t quite place my finger on.
It was now time to turn on my assassin charm.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I sneered, placing both arms across the back of the couch.
“You’re being quite casual for this serious situation, darling.”
“It’s what I got trained to do, and if this is what this actually is, I believe you’ve been taught the same.”
“Well, if that’s what you think,” he said, snickering and biting on his thumb nail. “But, you know, you’re forgetting something key.”
“And what is that?” I asked, my innocent tone dispersing into a harsher vibe.
“Never trust other assassins,” he said, lunging for my neck. Before he reached me, I shot out a foot, hitting the middle of his chest with accuracy to rival a scope. As he recoiled from the move, I jumped up from the couch and high kicked him into the nearest wall.
“The rooms are soundproof,” I said, sashaying over to him like a lion stalking its prey, “lucky me, huh, Italian boy?”
If I’ve learned anything about Italian’s, it’s that they despise being called boy.
“How ironic,” he spat back, a smirk that I couldn’t help but find sexy spreading across his face, “a hit man trying to kill a hit man.”
He lunged again, this time successful, drop kicking me onto the ground and making me hit my head on the wood edge of the couch.
After literally seeing stars, he climbed over me and grabbed me by the hair (which I both died it black and grew it out to my shoulders that year), repeatedly slamming my head into the plush carpet. It did everything but relieve the impact the slightest.
At the realization that he was very seductively straddling my hips, even though I was getting the shit beat out of me, I had just enough consciousness to spit, “If I knew you were advancing on me, Mr. Way, I would’ve made better appearances.”
The second I finished my sentence, he punched me square in the jaw, knocking me out cold.
I sat at the bar, miserable about being in a stupid, claustrophobic (but fabulously first class) train through the Alps. As you could visibly tell from the bags that hung from my lower eyelids and my more than droopy smile, my life wasn’t exactly fitting to my tastes.
So, as I sat, drinking my miserable ‘on the house for a handsome man’ Pina Colada, in miserably cold Austria, I watched him walk over.
The word him swirled in my mind, as I knew and could already tell that this was an extraordinary man. He had his sights on me the whole time I was sitting at the bar, which admittedly made me very paranoid per usual. It was as if he was mustering courage to approach me, but I wasn’t that fond of myself to be thinking so.
Although this man looked entirely Italian with his sexy, strong jaw structure and the very brown tint of his hair, he had an American accent to rival mine, the only American on the train besides myself.
“Can I get a Harvey Wallbanger, please?” they mysterious Italian-American man asked the bartender, with perfect English and a perfect American accent as previously described.
“Buon pomeriggio, Mr. Way. A drink, at this early hour?” The bartender, the name engraved on the shiny plastic tag on her white button up shirt read: Natalia.
“You know how I am,” he said, almost in a boasting manner, pushing his glasses higher up on his nose.
“You come here often?” I asked the Italian, Mr. Way according to Natalia, sipping my drink as I watched him intently.
“Yes, unfortunately,” he said with a light chuckle, leaning towards me slightly as if to share a secret. “I travel for work.”
“So do I,” I laughed, shaking my head and gulping a mouthful of the sugared-down drink, ignoring the brain freeze that invaded my head.
“Ah,” he said in empathy, “what do you do?”
I did have a fake job for the sole fact that you don’t run around, telling people that you’re a hired gun. But for some reason, I didn’t want to lie to this strange man. I had to anyway, whether I liked it or not.
Ah yes, I am a soldier of fortune. You’ll hear more about that later on.
“I’m a photographer,” I said happily, my lie as smooth as always. I still made extra sure that I added any small detail to add to the effect.
His eyebrows scrunched up momentarily, no doubt picking up some sort of sense that I was lying. If he really did, it would mean that either he was some sort of FBI or CIA agent. Because I’m that good at lying.
“Hmmph,” he said calmly, sipping his drink as he reflected my words. I nodded my head and played along with my charade with absolutely no indicators that I was lying. “And how long have you been doing this… photography?”
He knew I was lying. Somehow, he was as good as me or better. The pause before photography told me that he knew I was trying to hide my real profession.
“Since high school,” I said, and since lying was no longer useful in this situation, I changed the subject. “What do you do?”
He chuckled. “The same thing as you.”
Natalia looked up from cleaning a glass cup to stare at Mr. Way intently. I looked back and forth at the both of them.
“Photography?” I asked innocently, placing my drink on the bar just in case things got messy. I added a slight furrow of my eyebrows to touch off the innocent tone.
Mr. Way looked at Natalia and nodded. “How about we go somewhere else,” he whispered, the strong Italian accent startling me, “privately.”
The Italian man set down his glasses, clearly fake now, and walked towards the sleeping quarters of the train. To avoid any suspicions of fellow train riders, I followed him into the train car, but I got my fists ready in case he was out to kill me.
He stopped at the room before mine, suspiciously one room to the left of room 22,and he swiped the hotel-like card through the reader, and held the door open for me.
I stepped inside, instantly aware of every piece of furniture, every sprawled out piece of clothing on the floor, every step he made from behind me.
“You’re not much of a cleaner,” I commented, stepping over a pair of boxers to reach the plush couch outfitting the wall with the window.
“I’m not much of anything, signore,” he said, with a particular bitterness I couldn’t quite place my finger on.
It was now time to turn on my assassin charm.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I sneered, placing both arms across the back of the couch.
“You’re being quite casual for this serious situation, darling.”
“It’s what I got trained to do, and if this is what this actually is, I believe you’ve been taught the same.”
“Well, if that’s what you think,” he said, snickering and biting on his thumb nail. “But, you know, you’re forgetting something key.”
“And what is that?” I asked, my innocent tone dispersing into a harsher vibe.
“Never trust other assassins,” he said, lunging for my neck. Before he reached me, I shot out a foot, hitting the middle of his chest with accuracy to rival a scope. As he recoiled from the move, I jumped up from the couch and high kicked him into the nearest wall.
“The rooms are soundproof,” I said, sashaying over to him like a lion stalking its prey, “lucky me, huh, Italian boy?”
If I’ve learned anything about Italian’s, it’s that they despise being called boy.
“How ironic,” he spat back, a smirk that I couldn’t help but find sexy spreading across his face, “a hit man trying to kill a hit man.”
He lunged again, this time successful, drop kicking me onto the ground and making me hit my head on the wood edge of the couch.
After literally seeing stars, he climbed over me and grabbed me by the hair (which I both died it black and grew it out to my shoulders that year), repeatedly slamming my head into the plush carpet. It did everything but relieve the impact the slightest.
At the realization that he was very seductively straddling my hips, even though I was getting the shit beat out of me, I had just enough consciousness to spit, “If I knew you were advancing on me, Mr. Way, I would’ve made better appearances.”
The second I finished my sentence, he punched me square in the jaw, knocking me out cold.
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