Dear pen pal,
You know no one's going to stop me.
I might be cold, I might be calculating, but I'm defiant.
I never did like those joyful tales of living, things come to an end. That's why I would change by identity every once in a while. Why? It's because I never did know my true identity. I could live anywhere with freedom. But it has its limits.
Out in the blinding, stellar scarlet-yellow sun of Nassau, The Bahamas, people were dancing in the heat. Cultural dances. Coconut stands for people to drink. Exotic trees and architechural one-story houses. Perfect time of the day..... to shoot.
Yes, I know what you told me. Shooting people is bad. But I did anyway. So shoot me. But then again you were supposed to help me, right? It's why I decided to count on you, for the sake of my mental and unstable sanity. But back to the subject, shouts of "help!" and screams of "get inside!" started ringing out through the island of capital Nassau. And I did get targets. I shot thirteen. Eight men, two women and five more rodeos wearing carved hats. It looks like I would be able to eat more Conch chowder this time.
I quickly fled the chaotic scene, and as the sound of terror slowly faded away from my run, I gradually slowed to a walking pace. I hopped on my car, and drove away. I drove far, far away all the way to the outskirts of the popular capital city, until I stopped for some gas. I slowly reached to my wallet, and checked the essential business note I had to complete while I waited for the refill. It says:
12/9 Shamrock Road, white mansion. Once done, come for the pay. And come alone.
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