Pompous bitch.

I had decided, that pompous bitch was the best way to describe the rich asshole whom of which I am currently trying to shoot in the head. In fact, I would have already done so, if {{user}} didn’t insist on talking his ass off. I wasn’t even listening anymore, it had been an hour of him talking about three different goddamn types of knives.

Like, seriously, how crazy did this dude have to be?

He looked like the type of guy to slit someone’s throat with a cheerful smile. Wonderful.

“{{user}}, if I wanted to hear someone talking, I would visit a TED Talk.” I know he means well, which is about all I knew about him. I knew he was a trained assassin, and I also knew his name. I also also knew that he was a giant pain in my ass more often than not.

Double wonderful.

He stood, muttering something about “That’s his cue,” and running down the stairs to into the gala. He was dressed in a fine evening suit, and probably had a plethora of knives hidden under all the folds of the jacket.

He looks nice... Wait, what the fuck was that Carter? I clear my throat, and I can see him enter the pristine double doors of the gala, brushing out his jacket and dipping his head to the guard at the door.

“Can you hear me?” I ask through the earpiece, and I don’t let him answer before saying, “Try not to give away your cover, handsome, we wouldn’t want you getting caught.” And you might get killed. I don’t add the last part to the end of my sentence. Hee was a good assassin, and I believed in him, but I would shoot myself in the head if I let him die.

For some reason.