Monday, September 3, 2012

Getting The Job Done

There was something about the man that made me uneasy. Uneasiness is not a feeling I particularly care for. When I start to feel uneasy about someone or something, it usually means something very, very bad is about to happen. Oh, it never happens to me, mind you, so you might wonder why I care one way or the other about it. Well, what can I tell you? It’s all part and parcel of the job description when you’re a freelance Guardian Angel.
You’re expected to care about people and things to a degree others don’t. It only gets worse when you’re a freelancer like me. Instead of having the luxury of investing all of your love, devotion and concern in a single, special individual, I get lumped with the enormous entirety that is all of mankind.
Now, what was it about this mook that had my celestial Spidey sense going haywire? I suppose it might have been the handgun he had poorly concealed beneath his blue plastic windbreaker. In my experience, poorly-concealed pistols tend to mean trouble. The very fact that they’re not better hidden, suggests they’re not something the individual totes around with them. See how the reasoning works?

If I had to guess, and I don’t really, what had every bell and whistle ever conceived going off; I’d have to say it was the fact the guy was alone…solo…all by himself. Now, as a general rule, that’s not such a such in the grand scheme of things. There are, literally, millions upon millions of the Big Cheese’s handiworks that simply don’t play well with others. That’s okay, I’m sure He understands that.

It was more than the aloneness, though. He was at Super Happy Fun Time Land all alone! Nobody, and I mean nobody, does that unless there’s some seriously hinky stuff about to go down. It’s not the kind of place one goes to be alone, see?

Reaching for the gun, he pulled it out, nearly ripping his slacks off in the process. Before he could recover from the momentary distraction, I made my move. Locating the exact spot and delving to his inner core, I deftly slipped his immortal soul from his body and into a convenient storage receptacle. While things might not have worked out exactly as this poor sod had expected, at the end of the day, everybody gets to go home with memories of a joyful and magical theme-park variety. I guess that beats all aces out of harboring the memory of a mass shooting any day, eh?

So, I can see you’re kind of confused here. Why was I doing the Angel of Death’s gig and not my Guardian Angel shtick? Well, I’ll let you in on a wee bit of a trade secret. They let us freelancers do the “taking immortal souls” routine, too. Cool, huh? So, just remember the next time you contemplate doing something that might just give me cause to feel uneasy…I got the cure for that.

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