Having breakfast with a rival assassin turned out to be much more cordial than I would have expected. In fact, I'd even describe it as pleasant. Not a single bullet fired, not a single drop of blood shed. I have a theory for this-- bacon brings people together.
Even people who are paid to kill other people. We made quite the pair, two contract killers sharing a table. Between us lay toast, bacon, and eggs. We drank tea (her) and coffee (me), and we passed time by conversing about how we would murder our enemies.
"Getting in won't be difficult," said the woman who sat across from me. People called her the Black Ghost. Her jet-black hair was mussed and hung over her brow like a dark drape; she wore an oversized T-shirt which she had confiscated from one of my bedroom dresser's drawers; yet even pre-shower, she remained a mind-numbing knockout. I have more than once compared the Ghost to a living Michelangelo masterpiece and with good reason.
She referred to Dread Tower, crown jewel of Dread Incorporated and home to Simeon Dread, a modern conqueror akin to Alexander the Great and Genghis Khan. The Ghost and I planned to waltz into the Tower and kill the king in his lair. The reasons to do so were many, the least of which being that Simeon Dread wanted us dead. In a way, he had fired the first shot, and we had no choice but to kill him to win the war.
Just one problem, and I voiced it, "We don't know that Dread is behind any of this. Well, any specific thing. We have theories and guesses..."
"Educated guesses,"the Ghost interjected and raised a cup of tea. She sipped it without making a sound. That was her breakfast: tea. The bacon, toast, and eggs were all mine. Earlier, I had tried to reason with her that breakfast was the most important meal of the day. She had just given me a look.
I played with my scrambled eggs which were presently beginning to look more and more like exploded brains (I eat them with ketchup). "Theories and educated guesses," I corrected and continued, "but no real evidence that Dread or Mrs. Dread want us out of the picture. How do I know you're right about any of this? How do I know you're right about Sheila?"
Sheila was my girlfriend, or at least, she was supposed to be. The Ghost claimed she was a plant, a fake, a fraud who had manipulated circumstances to engage in a relationship with me. The Ghost believed Dread paid her to pretend to... love... me so that I'd lose my head if and when he took her away from me. If the Ghost was right, Dread's plan had worked: I was going to lose my head. I was going to lose my head right in front of him, and Dread would not like what he saw.
"Let's say I'm wrong about everything," the Ghost said in a voice that let me know she didn't think she was wrong about anything. Her dark brown eyes demanded my attention over her tea cup. "By confronting Dread, we will be taking control of the game, away from whomever is behind the attacks on you, our recent run-ins with each other, the contract on your Dad, all of it. We'll flush him or her out." She smiled, and it was sly, sexy, and scary all at once. She said, "If I'm not wrong then we'll have finished it." She set the tea cup on a saucer (where the Ghost had found either in my kitchen, I had no idea) and dared me to disagree.
I sighed, stabbed my eggs with my fork, and thought about what she'd said. Some of our friends and colleagues might have found it hard to believe that the Ghost and I could fall so easily into benevolent collaboration. Not too long ago, the Ghost had been contracted to murder me. We had almost fought to the death on the roof an abandoned, dilapidated building. A short time later, I had been hired to kill her by none other than Simeon Dread. Last night we had shared a bed; this morning, we shared a table and an unspoken truce. Here's a second theory to supplement my bacon one: the Ghost and I understood that we were the opposite sides of the same coin. If one of us were rubbed out or destroyed, the other would lose its value. We co-existed to our mutual benefit. We had no choice. If this explanation doesn't quiet the critics, all I can say to them is this: eat a dick. Make that a bag of dicks.
After a moment a silence, the Ghost said, "I killed a man with a fork once. Shoved it into his throat. It was... interesting. Messy though." At her words, I glanced at the utensil in my hand. It gleamed in the morning sunlight.
I frowned and wondered aloud, "What should I call you? It seems weird to call you 'Ghost', especially if we're going to be partnering up." The Ghost knew what I was doing. She knew my name; if she gave me hers, it'd be a show of trust and would cement the bond that we had precariously begun. Of course, she could always lie and make up one, and I'd never know the difference.
"Amunet," she said. "I suppose you could call me 'Ame' if you want to be American about it."
I liked that. It sounded like 'aim' which fit the Black Ghost like a glove-- just not O.J. Simpson's glove.
I leaned back in my chair, scanned the half-eaten food on the table, the half-full glass (yep, I'm an optimist) of orange juice beside my steaming mug of coffee, then glanced around the visible vicinity of my apartment. This small, cluttered space was where I lived. These inane, unassuming objects were the materials of my life. I soaked it in. Made up my mind.
"If nothing else," I said and looked into Amunet's eyes. They held my glare. "It will be very satisfying to see that condescending look wiped off Dread's face when we kill him."
Sunlight streamed through the kitchen blinds and covered us with warm, yellow light.
***
I had not expected the Ghost, Ame, to stay the night. I doubted that she expected it, either. Things had gotten electric very quickly and spiraled out of control before we could stop it. Of course, I couldn't have done much to stop much of anything if I had wanted. Ame had tied my ankles and wrists to the corners of the bed with restraints and given me a healthy dose of sedatives and muscle relaxers. She had made all of the decisions and called all of the shots, and why she had taken a chance on me, I could not quite figure out but had no intention of questioning. The last thing I wanted to do was change the Ghost's mind about killing me.
Every moment I spent with her seemed to bring another shocking revelation: her theory about Sheila, her plan to assassinate Dread, and her name, just for starters. The most exciting discovery of all? We learned we had an insatiable appetite for one another.
Having Ame in the shower with me helped me forget about Sheila relatively quickly, and as the assassin's soapy body slid against mine, a small part of my mind wondered if I was being played yet again. This might be a ploy to turn me against Sheila, the way that Veronica Dread had tried. Mrs. Dread had told me that I could not be beaten if I let Sheila go. In Dread's terms, 'go' was a euphemism for 'die'. I could let Sheila go easier knowing that she had been a fraud and that our entire relationship had been built on a foundation of lies. My heart still ached with regret and hurt, but I had never been a very good boyfriend to Sheila. I had loved her, but that had not kept me from using sex to better deal with Veronica Dread and with Cynthia Skye. Even if Sheila wasn't a liar, she would probably be better off without me as long as Dread (or whoever else might have her) didn't kill her.
Ame put a hand against the back of my head, pulled me to her, and kissed me with passionate longing; her tongue found my tongue, and my thoughts turned off. Steam fogged the glass of the shower doors; I pushed her against them, her skin smearing the glass. Jets of water streamed and hit us and exploded, decorating our bodies and the walls with a thousand pinpricks of reflected light.
