There were three of them left on the bleak

There were three of them left on the bleak promenade. John, whose face had turned red with cold, Pete, the tallest of the three, and Gavin, clutching the address in his hand

Gavin passed the addresses to Pete, who looked them over and said "Three? No matter we'll just liquidate them all. The Boss says "Always be thorough", right Pete?" Pete nodded.

Devoted to the very end of the concept of bread lines and really cheap vodka, Pete wanted everyone dead. That's why he joined this group of killers in the first place. He had one

chance to return the motherland to the Stalinized system he had become so fond of. He proposed a road trip to his assassination squad, one that ended in the Prime Minister's death.

Due to an error on Aeroflot, their assassination gear was transported to Georgia in the USA. Resigned, they took snap shots and groused while sipping vodka by the Black Sea.

The assassination gear footlocker was duly delivered to a cypress on the outskirts of Okeefenokee Swamp, a scrawl of a signature confirming delivery by a raccoon now absent.

The moose unloaded the gear, set it up in less time than it takes a knot to tie, then set out Rambo-style against the humans that had murdered Bambi's mother. He readied molotovs

were busy texting instead of preparing for what obviously was going to be the end of the world as we know it. When his mom got home, she was gonna be so pissed. "Ten-HUP!" he screa

med but no one was listening. He wakked to the fridge and grabbed a beer. Outside he pulled up a lawn chair, took a long draw on his brew and watched the mushroom clouds bloom.