TENNIS AND DEATH

Howdy, *Jack Tide here.

You'd think a professional hitman would be in uncanny shape. I mean in all the movies the hero is always scaling walls and jump-kicking villains in the mug, sprinting and hurling themselves over rooftops.  You'd think a professional Big Game Hunter could keep up for at least an hour on the tennis courts. Not so. There's a large difference between putting a forty-four caliber bullet in some jerky's cranium and administering the perfect backhand.

She looks fantastic though. Wearing a white tennis skirt and a blue and white striped polo, her long hair pulled back in a loose pony-tail, tucked beneath a visor. Actually as I think about it, her wardrobe is fairly cliche. Me, on the other hand, decided to go Perry Ellis cargo shorts and a black Devereaux athletic shirt with neon green racing stripes. And Folio sunglasses.

Her legs have that perfect soft glow tan. Holy cats.

Cindy sets this stereo she's brought on the bench and takes a swig of water. She pushes play and the music starts. All tempo filled, summery, and fun.

      Ol' morning crimson dawn

...there's a creek now on the floor
Do the paupers sleep tonight?
Do the children read or write?

There's a pot a brewin'
A beat-up cup for fillin'

Now the paper is saying that are polls are shifting                 

"All right Jack," she says, smiling as she walks over to her side of the court. There's lovely confidence in her step and the sun feels amazing. "What are we playing for?"

I walk over to my side of the net and do some stretches. Spin the racket in my hand and give it a few good strokes. My shadow against the green is mighty fine.

"I was thinking..."

She smiles at me, takes up a stance, weighs the ball in her hand and tosses it up. Her stroke is alarmingly pristine and the ball goes sailing cross court.

I jog over and slap the ball up towards her with a bit of chip.

"Nice!" she shouts, backhand stroke.

I'm watching her as she jogs and swerves, sunlight glancing off her shoulders with brilliance. She's water on the court, liquid and cool.

I lose like a champ and then we're done, sitting on the bench, covered in sweat and newly minted tans. I feel good. She looks at me and smiles, then sprays me with her water bottle.

We have dinner at this trendy little bistro and as she's talking I'm studying her micro-expressions. There's six major basic emotions. Fear, Anger, Happiness, Surprise, Sadness, and Disgust. Below these are action units that help define what the human is feeling. Consider them like verbs or adjectives to your noun of emotion. Marry these facial expressions to body language and you can basically turn off what she's saying vocally and get everything from her physicality.

She's into me.

When you're a kid you somehow get it into your head that love and romance will be easy, full of laughter and smiles, singing and dancing, like in the movies, all set to a pretty cool soundtrack. And usually the first part of the new relationship is like that. But a movie only lasts 90 minutes

I can do the 90 minutes. That's never been an issue. It's what comes after the 90 minutes that usually fumble me up.

Aristotle said Love is Single Soul inhabiting Two Bodies. But who's soul? I'd prefer it to be my soul as I've worked rather hard on keeping it up. And how do I feel about someone meddling about in my soul? Leaving socks and laundry and empty mascara bottles around, and what if they bring along a friggin cat? Cat dander in my soul? And then you'll have that inevitable conversation Jack, could you kind of lay off smoking so much? We have to share this soul you know? But it's my soul. I had this soul long before you pranced along honey. But Aristotle said- Fuck Aristotle!

Love is a many splendid thing. Sure sure sure. So is taking out a dictator in some small banana republic with a .300 Win Mag sniper rifle while listening to Arcadia's Election Day. Now that's love.

I'm in Paramaribo, Suriname. The weather is hot. Humid. It doesn't get this muggy and stinky on a cramped New York subway train (the C Train yo).

I've got the guy in my sights. He's some faction leader in a proposed revenge junta that dates back to the December Killngs. Don't ask me the particulars. Politics aren't my thing. Like blondes. They just keep popping up in my life.

His skin is greasy brown and he has this posture of command, but it's a skittish command and he knows it. His eyes are shifty. I think there's a spider crawling on my back.

Vic's hooked me up with a boat awaiting me off of Henry Fernandesweg, on the Suriname River. From there I'll meet a larger boat fifteen miles off the coast.

This job should've entailed two weeks of planning at best but the backers wanted a quick in and out. Two days max. This is fine with me as this country sucks.

I adjust the scope. Test the wind with my Windwizard. Breathe. Sweat just can't stay in my body and I'm sorry I sprayed on a bit of my Acqua di Gio. It's wasted out here.

Told Cindy I had to leave for a few days, go back to Missionary, Kansas to visit the family. Did I feel bad about lying to her?

This is the thing. Lies. They will always dominate my relationships. This is what Peter Parker must feel like.

Thing is...I'm still sore from my bout of tennis. It's a good kind of burn and it takes me back to seeing Cindy on the court, watching her sitting across from me at the bistro, laughing. Her hair falling down around her chin as she nibbled on a blueberry muffin.

Of course there's still Keira. And now I'm smiling as I'm thinking about my last encounter with her. It was just coffee at the Tully's and she said a few interesting things to me. I wonder if she has a boyfriend. Of course she does. Types like her usually do. And they're usually in ties.

I have a couple ties though.

The man's name is Alexandre Calixte. He's stepping out of his truck with two of his muscle-heads, all carrying weapons. Looks like old Russian model semi-autos. Calixte dabs sweat from his brow and looks up at the sun, unsure if it's a kind look or one of annoyance. He grins and sets mirrored sunglasses on his face.

I set the scope hairs on his forehead.

I'm going to kiss her. This is what I'm going to do when I get back to the States, back to Seattle. I'm going to take her out. I'm going to take her on the Bainbridge Island Ferry and we will stand up on the bow and see the lights of my city, and I will kiss her. But what song should be playing while this happens?

I pull the trigger.

Calixte's left side of his face vaporizes in a mist of red, mingled with shards of skull and teeth.

I lower the gun a little and move it to the right, squeeze the trigger.

One of his henchmen's stomach erupts. He's thrown back into the ditch of the road, his leather boots flying.

I pull the trigger.

Another man's neck is shorn. It's the kind of ending for him that only happens in rock songs. With a heavy drum solo.

I pack up my gear and I'm running through the foliage, through spiderwebs built like sheets of cotton. Sweat tearing from my body and I'm happy.


*Jack Tide is a fictional creation of Michael Callinglast, as is everyone in these blogs. So don't get offended yo. Unless.....you like to get offended.  Check out Jack's adventures in FEROCITY.