The hit-man looked outside his heavy, stained oak door. He saw a pink envelope lying on the ground unsuspectingly, with illegible chicken scratch across its front. Strange. It had neither a return address nor a sender, just one proclamation. Urgent. He was about to dismiss the whole incident as a joke, until he heard the jingle of pocket change inside. He took the package inside to his desk, opening it with his crystal letter opener gingerly, as if it were a legitimate task. His actions were deliberated. The hit-man found his usual contact form, the one he gave to all of his prospective clients. However, none of the form was filled out, except the “target” field. See back. He flipped it around with shaking hands, only to find a photo of himself. He dropped the letter, still trembling, to face a broken piggy bank on his daughter, Sarah’s play desk. Then, he heard his last words.
You know I’ve always wanted to be like you, dad.