Lousy had put on the Watchmen movie after that, which Smithy had always quite liked, followed by an episode of The Walking Dead. That was an annoying move, as it was the season finale, and Smithy and Cheryl had been saving up the episodes to watch together. He hated watching stuff out of order. There was nothing this guy couldn’t ruin. Halfway through the episode, the two large pizzas Lousy had ordered from some place called Ragadoni’s turned up. Lousy had offered the delivery girl a hundred bucks if she came in and burst some balloons for him – no questions asked. The kid had called him a pervert and hightailed it out of there.
Once the initial terror of being discovered had receded, Smithy had found himself becoming quite relaxed. His presence had clearly gone undetected, and Lousy, while not exactly a gracious host, seemed uninterested in admiring his ludicrous horde of collectibles. By about 11pm, Lousy had nodded off while a bunch of talking heads argued over who should play quarterback for the Patriots. Smithy could feel his own eyelids growing heavy. He needed to stay awake – aside from anything else, he had been informed by Cheryl that he talked in his sleep. That would be a really dumb way to get found out.
Before he knew it he was wide awake. Something had caught his attention. His instincts had twigged it and they were just waiting for the rest of him to catch up. What was it? Lousy hadn’t moved; he was still snoring away happily. The TV continued to talk to itself. What was wrong? Was it simply a jolt of paranoia at falling asleep that had sent a shock of adrenalin through him?
Then, without a whisper of noise, one of the doors to the balcony opened and a figure clad in black stepped in from the night.
Chapter Seven
Not my problem.
These were the first words that popped into Smithy’s head. Whatever the hell this was, it was not his problem. Lousy Louis was an appalling human being and it stood to reason that he had pissed off a great deal more people than Smithy alone. Or maybe he just had a lot of highly steal-able stuff.
Smithy sat amongst the plush Muppets and watched as the figure in black looked down at the slumbering form of Lousy Louis Reed – who seemed to be in a pizza-induced coma, drooling on himself contentedly. The figure was backlit by the light of the massive TV screen, so details were hard to make out – not that there was a great deal of detail to see. The intruder – well, technically the second intruder – was clad head to toe in the black apparel of a … Well, Smithy felt embarrassed even to think it, but a ninja.
One person breaking into an apartment in costume was odd, but two doing it separately? Mind you, while the ninja outfit was a bit much, the person wearing it had magically appeared on the top-floor balcony of a twenty-six-storey building, so maybe it was unfair to lump them into the same category as a dude who’d run the New York Marathon dressed as a chicken.
The ninja stepped neatly onto and over the immense coffee table, and leaned in close to look at the snoozing Louis. Smithy couldn’t say exactly what, but something about this person’s gait made him feel sure it was a man. The ninja clicked his fingers – no response. It appeared Louis was an incredibly heavy sleeper. No sooner had that thought occurred to Smithy, another one bounced up from somewhere to contradict it. According to Lousy’s own whiny complaint delivered to his soon-to-be ex-PA he was a light sleeper who got woken up by malfunctioning doors whooshing open in the night.
Smithy didn’t have much time to think about it, as the ninja had just done something unexpected. Though could a ninja who’d just walked in from the sky ever be said to do anything truly unexpected? Still, pulling a sleek black rucksack from his back and taking out a camcorder was surprising. The figure looked around the room and seemed to make a decision – he placed the recording device at the end of the coffee table, on its small inbuilt tripod. Smithy still had no idea what was happening, but he had a very bad feeling about it.
Things were about to get worse as, with a sense of dread, he recognised the tingling sensation at the back of his mind. He’d thought it was gone. He’d thought wrong.
HELP HIM.
He felt suddenly queasy.
HELP HIM.
Smithy closed his eyes and tried to have a strong word with himself/the voice of God.
Look, this isn’t my problem. I don’t know what any of this is about.
HELP HIM.
It’s really none of my business. How do I know that he doesn’t deserve whatever this is?
HELP HIM.
Smithy opened his eyes and shook his head. He was done being dictated to by his own psychological illness.
HELP HIM.
The black-clad figure stood in front of the comatose Lousy Louis, looking back in the direction of the camcorder. Its small screen was turned forwards, so the person in front of it could see themselves being filmed and frame the shot. Seemingly satisfied, the ninja nodded at the camera and then reached over his shoulder and pulled out a sword. As the blade caught the light, Smithy was certain that it was very real and very deadly.
Oh crap.
HELP HIM.
HELP HIM.
HELP HIM.
Could he really watch an innocent man die? No, wait – that sentence didn’t sound right. Could he really watch a man who was guilty of an awful lot of things die? No, that wasn’t it either. Could he really watch an asshole who was guilty of being an asshole be executed in cold blood?
HELP HIM.
HELP HIM.
HELP HIM.
Crap.
If I die doing this bloody stupid thing, there’d better be a heaven, and this better score me some serious brownie points.
HELP HIM.
HELP HIM.
HELP HIM.
If you really are God, then no offence, but you’re not much of a conversationalist.
As quietly as he could, Smithy stood up and – for no reason he could readily understand – put on his hat.
Chapter Eight
The assassin placed the edge of the blade across Lou Reed’s throat and prepared to pull it back to deliver the death blow. After a moment’s consideration he bent down and repositioned Reed’s head carefully so that it was leaning on the other shoulder. The man mumbled in his sleep but otherwise did not stir.
He glanced at the camera once more to confirm that he had framed the shot correctly, and then pulled back the sword.
As the sword made its final descent, a flash of movement in his peripheral vision caused him to alter its course. A figure was hurtling towards him. The blade sang as it ripped through the air and tore through his attacker in one fluid motion.
The assassin watched in confusion as the severed head of Fozzie Bear spun off into the distance. He turned to see the only slightly less incongruous form of a leprechaun charging down the coffee table towards him. He swung the blade again, missing the Celtic mythical creature as it fell flat on its back and slid along the table’s polished surface. As he drew back the sword to strike a downward blow, the last thing he saw clearly was the gun. Then, in a triumph of engineering elegance and excellence, twenty paintballs hit him square in the face.
As the ninja howled in pain, Smithy rolled right and dropped off the table. The man staggered back and brought his hands to his paint-soaked face, dropping the sword in the process. As he rubbed furiously at his eyes, the sword embedded itself into the table at the exact spot where Smithy’s chances of reproduction had been only a moment before.