Assassins Anonymous

by Rob Hart

This thing is like dropping a rabid Tasmanian devil into the server room. It’s effective but not discerning.

He’s wearing a white polo shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals. He’s scruffy and his black wavy hair, shot through with the odd strand of gray, is stylishly unkempt. His outfit makes him look like a dad, but his sharp features and sly grin make him look like the kind of dad who hits on his kid’s second-grade teacher.

Usually I just get a bunch of dummies for backup who can’t spell their last names without peeking in their underwear.

‘The feeling of having shared in a common peril is one element in the powerful cement which binds us.’ ”

“And you’re tougher than a mouthful of thumbtacks.

It was one of those things I figured we would get to eventually, and then eventually turned into too late.

I turn my cup of coffee on the heavy wooden tabletop, hoping the words I’ve been struggling to find for the past year will suddenly reveal themselves, written on the surface of it.

I take a long drag of the coffee. It’s still a little too hot, but it feels good to do something to fill up the sharply awkward edges of the space.

“Sixty percent of recovery is cute slogans.”

The street is empty, the city taking that deep, peaceful breath it takes once a year for Christmas, when everyone either leaves or heads indoors, seeking out a little bit of light in the dark.