With my hands on the railing, I stare into

With my hands on the railing, I stare into the darkness beyond the veranda, listening intently. But the night rests silently: only mosquitos, flies, a dog barking in the distance.

Somewhere, out there in the darkness beyond my meagre circle of lamp-light, is my assassin. I step back from the veranda, closing the french windows behind me. I make sure to

irrigate, floss, and brush; this may be my last night, but it may not. Assassins are not always successful. I check the bolt lock for the seventh time before opening my Bible to

find a good passage. No such luck with the latter arrives. I sharpen my samurai sword and dart out into the nighttime world. I must find

down next to this heavy set, older gentleman. This gentleman gave me the chills. He wore a bowler hat that covered his eyes and a long, dark trench coat. Never before have I see

n such large hands. He was cracking walnuts with his fist. I offered to buy him a drink. He tipped his bowler and gazed at me with his blue glass eye. "Grape Fanta, extra ice."

What choice had I but to comply? "A large Grape Fanta, extra ice, coming right up, uh, sir..." I wasn't quite sure he was a man, despite his massive hands. His nails were magenta.

His bristly hair matched the color of the beverage pouring from the fountain. "Mmmmm...fuel," the quasi--man muttered, rubbing his massive hands together as I put the top on and

put it next to my foot. Suddenly the man grabbed the bottle of fuel and opened it. Before I could even ask what he was doing or tell him to stop he poured it all over himself.