John Smith

John Smith on first appearnances is an unremarkable man. 36, bald and 5'8". His horn- rimmed glasses sit unevenly on the bridge of his nose, stains on his off-white polyester shirt, 38 hour a week government paid job, 2 bedroom house in a middle class suburb.

No one takes notice of him. He is everyone and no one - at the same time.

But scratch beneath the veneer and certain things stand out... the uncanny dexterity in both hands, 20/20 vision behind those horned rims and under the polyester shirt - a wiry fighters physique.

Catching the loop train - its crowded. Head down, brown suitcase in his left hand - no one takes notice - as far as anyone is concerned he is off to work - and he is.

However, his line of work is a little different. His suitcase contains a folded newspaper. Within that folded newspaper a collapsible carbon fibre rifle, semi automatic, laser sighting, silencer.

Off to work.

* * * * * * * * *

Expensive suit, black tie, white smile - Blued eyed devil. The Lawman - not a servant, but its master - making a fortune from defending the scurge of society. Loving life, tolerating his trophy wife and harbouring a penchant for bedding his 'whoever it is at the time' PA - not for love but for the love of a bit of casual sport fucking.

He likes winning, and is good at it too. Happy in the comfort that his next legal fees will fund the ' 09 update of his M3 - which is so 2008 incidentally - with some money left over to invest in some of his current clientsbest columbian import, to snort off his PA's ample chest.

His time is up. He never sees it coming.

He doesn't notice the green dot tracking up his abdomen - he is too engrossed in the conversation he is having on his bluetooth headset, his new TAG and his new 'yet to be bedded' PA. A flash of green in his left eye. His 10th Floor office window shatters.

Lights out.

* * * * * * * * *

200m, high winds, target elevated. Only a handful of people in the world could make that shot.

John quickly dismantles his rifle, folds it in the newspaper and places it in the borwn leather suitcase.

He feels a sense of pride in his work - he is an artist - but no time to celebrate.

He had just created a Jackson Pollock out of some guys head on the office wall in front of which he had been standing just seconds ago, and the police would be scouring the area in minutes.

Time to disappear......