I see the politician. My sniper rifle was as focused as a nerdy high school student. This was its study, however, a frigid white scenery where the trees poked at the cool blue skyline. Rabbits and caribou trotted across the snow whilst the wolves chased them—and for what reason? To eat or to merely slay those lesser animals? I really couldn't say, but the rifle could. So dark and sleek was its body. The crosshairs are on point, however the motherfucker keeps on moving his damned head, playing snowball fight with his family. The wife is throwing one right next to him—I would hit her and the daughter, but I was sent to kill Governor Harper Billman, and that's what I'm gonna do. It is cold out here—if I piss myself there'll be yellow icicles coming down my legs.

My agency said wipe him out. I want to so bad, but if the man just stay still…I'm in New England at the end of the year, and this my resolution—kill the man and not the man's relatives. I have a knack for offing everybody in the vicinity. It's kind of impulsive, but who actually thinks when a three-foot SASR is in their hands? It's fully loaded, too—I can take out a whole forest on a platter. This target happens to be a blonde blue-eyed son of a gun.

"Come on father! You can do better than that!" said the son.

"Can't you take it easy on your old man?" said the target.

I'll take it easy on ya, bub—I'll won't kill your son. He has a tall boy, too, and the daughter's kind of cute. But so what? I never date broads I'll probably kill in the long run. She hid behind a snowman as the snowballs soared back and forth. The shit's sickening as I tap the ashes off of my cancer stick. I'm lying in a thick blanket of white, and I can't even feel if I had an erection.

I could really go in that house and warm up; perhaps a hot cup of cocoa would be nice. Looks brand new from here—too bad the target won't live long to grow into it. I could've stopped in the neighbors' home two miles and a half back, but like I said, I'm focused. A sniper isn't the kind of guy you invite to Sunday dinner.

I'm easing up closer to the cliff. Need a better shot…Damn! Wow, I almost fell off of this little cliff—I can't believe how brittle it was? Big chunks of ice fall down the slope and the target is aware of the sound. I getting up, snow all in my boots, all in my face, all in my—

Whoa, who the fuck is that by that big oak? He's wearing all black and that son of a gun is carrying a Bushmark—I haven't put my hands on such a silver beauty as that! I'm blasting the sniper at him.


Hello there, fans!

This is a sister story of Night Glaze by Drakehouse, 502055. If you enjoyed this part, read the second perspective. It will be continued, so stay tuned. Be on the lookout for his stories and mine on this website, because we're something extraordinary, you know?

Zander Williams