A sadistic grin played at the features of the lanky man with bright green tipped black hair as he reloaded the six shot pistol he held in his right hand. Each of the nine human sillohette targets he'd set up had three bullet holes in them. One in the chest, the crotch, and the temple. It made him happy to see the holes, the thought of a magnitude of pain coursing through the nervous system of a pitiful human. That's why he came here every Saturday at two twenty sharp. To erase the feelings of hate, of ruthless distruction he directed to the race. It allowed him to function properly Monday through Friday as he sat at a desk, shuffling papers in a tedious fashion.

"Fakir, it's the end of your hour. Time for the next shooter." The gray haired woman who ran the shooting range told him. Grimacing, Fakir shot off his last round and shoved the polished pistol in its case.

"Thank you Gladys. I'll be back next Saturday." He flashed the older woman a smile as he left the circle arena. He made his way out to his midnight blue Survolt and placed his baby in the passengers' seat before walking around the hood of the car, running his fingers through the light layer of dust that was always present during the hot, dry, Texas summers to the drivers' side. It was back home for him where laundry and dishes needed done.

Octavious rolled his eyes as the hugely expensive car zoomed by and dropped his lit cigarette out the window and edged onto the road to trail his target. He hated when the agency took on elusive hits, it messed everything up. Having to be invited into the homes, having to clean up and dispose of the bodies; it was much more trouble than it was worth. Even when they made it obvious like his current assignment; Fakir Loraque. According to his folder, the twenty-eight year old held a mundane desk job at a bank, but also laundered money for local dealers. He'd crossed a boss wrong and was now marked.

The second job he held became more and more obvious as the car headed further into the suburbs, out to the gated communities. Paper pushers didn't buy hundred thousand dollar home; then again, they didn't buy cars like the Survolt either. When Fakir finally turned, Octavious had to flash an ID to be let in, almost losing the dark car on the winding roads flanked by evergreen pines. The car made its way up the hill to a pale gray house with a lawn way too green for the middle of summer in Texas.

The brown haired twenty year old rolled his eyes, pathetic. It amazed him that this Fakir hadn't been murdered out of pure jealousy. A huge house on the top a hill, and a car that cost more than a surgeons' yearly income; it was ridiculous. Disgusted look on his face, Octavious parked on the street in front of the house, smoothing his shirt. Now for the hard part.

"Hello, I'm here to tell you about a very important business opportunity." Octavious hoped his cheery voice and fake smile fooled the man standing in the doorway with an irate expression on his face.

"I just got home, now's really not a good time for me." The man attempted to shut the door, but Octavious stopped it with his foot.

"Okay then," dropping his well practiced act, he glared at Fakir. "I'm here because I've got a job needing to be done, and apparently, you're the man to see." A look of resignation flashed briefly across his face before being replaced by a stony mask.

"Very well, come in." The door opened fully and the older man allowed his visitor access to his home. The houses' overly indulgent interior was enough to make the young brunette retch onto the charcoal gray Italian marble he stepped on.

"The sitting room is right through there." Fakir pointed Octavious toward a door, noting the hand the other kept near his waist. "I'll join you momentarily." Octavious nodded heading for the sitting room, and Fakir went to the kitchen.

Fakir glanced into the sitting room from the kitchen and sneered at his 'guest'. How stupid did people believe him to be? The agencies were just getting sad. Grinning, he dug in his pocket for a piece of leather string and pulled his hair back, then grabbed the gun he'd laid out for cleaning before going to the sitting room. Before the skinny brunette had time to do more than glance up at him, Fakir laid the pistol on the small coffee table between them.

"Let's be honest with each other. Lay our cards on the table. So to speak." He sat on the arm of on of the recliners, watching the other man expectantly. Octavious waited a few minutes, trying to figure out his target's motive, and slowly removed his polished silver dagger from its hiding place, placing it on the table. Fakir ran his eyes along the foot long dagger, then looked back at its owner.

"That it?" Fakir gestured to the knife. "Cause you'll be a pretty sorry excuse for an assassin in my book if that's all you carry."

"I'll have you know that I'm adept enough with that blade that it's all I have to carry." Fakir rolled his eyes and stood, not sure what to do with himself. Not sure how to proceed with this situation. He really needed to learn how to think things through.

Octavious was slightly impressed. This particular target was actually posing a challenge for him. Though compared to the usual type of people he went after, a challenge wasn't hard to manage.

"Now that our cards are 'out on the table', what would you like to do?" He moved his shaggy bangs out of his face and propped a filthy boot on the arm of the chair he sat in. It'd be so easy to kill him, with his back turned. The knife and gun laying on the table, but it'd be too easy.

"You know, I figured we'd have tea and cookies." Came the snarky reply. Fakir immediately wished he could take the comment back as he faced the man sent to kill him.

"Can you give me a good reason to allow you to live Fakir?" The man in question raised an eyebrow.

"Who exactly says you'd best me in a fight?" Looking skeptically at each other, both men lunged for the table, coming up with their weapon.

"An unloaded gun isn't going to do shit." Octavious chuckled. He stood and attempted to plunge the knife into his opponent's side, only to have the butt of the gun pounded against the side of his head. Now angry, he wrenched the pistol from Fakir's hand and threw it across the room.

"Just once I'd like to get in and out of a goddamn assignment without being wounded."

"You bastard!" Fakir grabbed Octavious around the neck and pulled him to the floor, only to have the dagger enter his body just below the ribs. Octavious twisted the knife brutally, waiting for the hands on his neck to loosen and the body fall limp. It only took a couple minutes and he was looking at the glassy eyes he found comforting.

"Way to easy." Octavious rolled his blue eyes and disposed of the body in the backyard and removed the bloody rug. As he surveyed the house, the man pocketed the pistol and exited back outside to his car. He drove away, humming Debussy, leaving the gated community as quietly and easily as he'd entered.