• They used me.

    20 years ago, I was known as a contract killer. My money came in from killing people, plain and simple. Well, at least, thats how I tried to make it seem. I worked under a small bounty hunting company, who's name I can't say or else the FBI, CIA and homeland security will be all over them, and they've been nothing but good to me. After a numerous amount of kills and good-jobs from my boss, I figured it was time to move up. I knew I was the best, but they didn't think so and I never moved up in their rankings and this made me mad. Then they came to me. The scum who's name I can only spit because of the hatred in my mouth. An assassin never kills with feeling, so I can't think about them ever. Well until now that is.

    20 years ago, a frail man with white hair and two black streaks adorning the side and a plain black suit came to me, almost begging for my help. He knew of my abilities and had been following all of my jobs. "Almost a crazed fan" he said, poisoning my ears with a load of self confidence that I didn't need. His split-tongue words tricked me over and over again, but this was just the beginning. He offered me housing, travel and guns at my expense. He won me over with the guns at my expense. He even gave me a code name; Veinte which I would be known as from that moment on. 20 years ago, I gave up my name. And then he said to call him "Uno". I thought it was corny, but again, I love guns. Uno said that once I become more intertwined with his "Family" as he called it, I would move up in ranks and get better equipment. He knew what I wanted, and knew what I would do. So I signed his contract from hell and went straight down with it. The contract stated that I can never contact anyone from that point on and I never did. I left my life with my name.

    They tested me and told me how extraordinary I was. How my brain patterns were above average and how I quick I was. More of the verbal alcohol which dug my grave even further towards their trap. I ran treadmills with confidence, and shot guns with ease and they just smiled. And on my first mission, Uno gave me an engraved M9 9mm automatic pistol and with that, I was hung. I never put this gun down and from mission to mission I fell in love with it. Every person I shot with it, I could feel us connecting even more. Every clip of bullets used made me feel joy. This was exactly what they wanted and I fell into their plan unknowingly. I listlessly threw away bodies like nothing and with each congratulatory gift I got, commemorating my bad deeds, I was only dragged down farther into the "family".

    I went through hundreds of hollow titles which they told me as promotions, just to keep me theirs. And it worked. I felt like I was a huge deal, every time I'd move up in ranks of numbers. I started as Novice Veinte and soon became Veteran Veinte. Years went by and my confidence was at it's peek. I had everything I wanted and my gun with me. And then I had my last mission, which I didn't know was my last mission. I'll never forget it. January 12, 1998, Brian Smith, 28, Single, blond hair, blue eyes, 6ft 2, 210lbs, computer technician. It's implanted in my brain and will stay with me until I die. I went through with the hit, but I'll never forget him. He clearly said to me "They're using you. Everything they said to you is a lie." before I shot him in his head and heard his blood curdling scream. They would never do that to me, but I couldn't help but to wonder. And the next day when I went to get my paycheck from Uno, he was gone and everything with him. The secret place where I met him was empty. Not a single trace was left. Until the FBI busted through the walls and had guns at me from every angle. I was a scapegoat.

    For 10 years I was locked up in a prison. Though they arrested me, they couldn't pin me for one thing, since Uno was so clean with his work. They let me go and I just had to laugh. Knowing that I was "complimented" and "Appreciated" for 10 years, only to be thrown away in the blink of an eye. And from that point on, I found my old employers and we researched on Uno. Nothing. No pictures, fingerprints or anything. But we did find one thing. Every person I killed... Every person I shot in the head, blankly in the middle of their sweat-soaked forehead... had been assigned to take down Uno, by the FBI. Brian Smith was the only person who got close enough to Uno, working for the FBI. Close enough to be one of Uno's assassins. And like me, he was poisoned and turned. Like me, he was used and hung dry. But unlike me, he's dead. I guess I'm the next hit.