UNDER CONSTRUCTION - WORK NOT FINAL
I will die in seven days.
Just now, I got a neatly sealed letter with certificate of delivery. It’s like these postal workersprey are trying to commit suicide before the year’s over, satisfied to just drop off the letter like it’s routine shit and then not say a single word to me. I can’t fucking stand that. When I see a rude civil servant, I just want to drive a home run through their brain. In the form of the great Mickey Mantle, the sensation of the core of my bat making perfect contact with their skull zings up my arm. The instant I kill them becomes an opportunity to fix those bad manners, a ‘critical’ hit, if you will.
The postmanMy prey was all flustered and barely even saw me coming, so I was able to go all out and land a direct hit right to his face. Knock it out of the fuckin park. The surprised look in his eyes almost appealed to my better nature, but whether he dies here or commits suicide, it’s not like it makes a difference. Just like a KO’d boxer, his body bent at a weird angle on the ground with a face like a fulcrum. Not the worst expression to die with. Almost like he was trying to tell me something. For this guy, was there any proof he felt regret? Just the outcome of this encounter.
But he was weak, and the number of sandbagsmeatsacks in my collection has gone up by one.
The texture of the envelope delivered by the postmanvictim is soft and smooth, like the touch of a fine womancheap whore from the good side of town. That kind of sealed letter has to mean good news. Could this be my big break? An invitation to join the major leagues? Or better yet, a love letter from the elegant womanbitch I crossed paths with at that hotel. There's really nothing quite like a good, old-fashioned womanbroad.
Easy daydreams like that have a 100% chance of striking out.
Once again, Lady LuckVenus gives me the cold shoulder. A meticulous workaholic has gone and written me a swan song. The bold, neat handwriting and the precise, neurotic contents of the letter are proof of a man with more than a few screws loose. Damn … guess I finally stepped on that landmine.
There are three types of people you should try to avoid meeting in life.
One: someone who won’t carry a headbangconversationwith you.
Two: someone who doesn’t wink.
Three: someone who gives a meaningless smile.dumbass grin
In other words, an addictjunkie. These three types of addictjunkie are possessed by Death and have dispatched more than a few souls to hell. Or more like, they’re on good terms with Death itself? Not that it matters either way. The thing is, two of these addictsjunkies have now taken a shine to me. The signature reads ‘Curtis Blackburn’ … bummer.
~ It is a good season to die.
In seven days, I shall deliver your death.
Please be a gentleman and dress appropriately.
ChampagneBollinger would be an appropriate pairing.
Parting is such sweet sorrow. In search of vintage.
Curtis Blackburn ~
Here in Seattle, there’s no one in the businessunderground who hasn’t heard of this big shot. There is a 100% chance I’ll go down like a dog. I’m going to have to organize a closeout sale on my life in the next seven days. Gonna be busy.
If you boil it down, it’s pretty simple. No matter where I am in seven days, that workaholic always gets his man - the letter he sent is overflowing with self-assuredness in his ability to kill.
Reading between the lines is one of the things I’m good at, though. Or in this case, considering my weaknesses. Any dumbass can chug some tequila, spin the globe, and get a first-class ticket with one checked bag to the first blank spotblack hole on the map. (Of course, you’d need to rob a schmancy mansion to afford the plane ride.) Somewhere during the three connecting flights, you get to know the flight attendant, and upon arriving at your unknown, foreign destination, finally hook up with the duty-free supermodelbitch of your dreams. The plan after that is to forget about the world and spend the next three months in bed, making sweet❤, sweet❤❤ love❤❤❤ without any sense of urgency. And twenty years later, in this fresh new lifenew horizon, having become the big shot ofon local businessthe dark side , the rest will be smooth sailing.
Hold it! You can’t spell ‘life’ without an ‘if’. What ‘if’ the blank spotblack hole you land on when you spin the globe ends up being a developed country instead of a secluded spot? Still no problem. When one door closes, another opens. Just flip your map over, and your ‘black hole’ becomes a ‘wormhole’. If you go from an urban area to some random spot on the other side of the earth, it usually ends up being unexplored territory. This planet’s not as narrow as people think. Let’s go then, somewhere faraway like Greenland.
Okay! Isn’t that my best game plan? That monologue was so long, I’m ready to just jetescape right now. Never been more grateful to be that dumbass. Thank you, MomMother, for giving birth to such a dumb ass!
Dan: That’s some prospect, isn’t it?
Alright, I’ll bite.
So long as you don’t screw me over.
My name is Shigeki Birkin. The seven-day deadlinelimit somehow seemed like a bad dream. So then, of course, this guy comes into the picture. He’s 100% bad news. My instinct tells me so. I’ve never seen such a terrifying face in my life. A huge revolver in a black suit. His glare pulses with murderous intent. This guy … he’s grinning, but it sure as hell doesn’t feel like a smile.
Dan: Sure, I’ll take you to Greenland.
To a paradise of fear.
A gunshot rings out, and my world goes pitch black.
-----
July 1, 11:45 AM
Shigeki Birkin’s Apartment
Christopher Mills is running more than five hours behind schedule.
When he shows up, he starts making excuses with an innocent smile on his face. Says he was tied up for five hours and couldn’t get out. Apparently it’s going to be Seattle’s most epic action story. When he talks, his words reek of lies and gunsmoke, his gestures get overblown, and ‘fake’ magically becomes ‘fantasy’. Nobody trusts himshit , but nobody hates himshit either.
He’s a mysterious little punkshit . Just this late arrival is enough to put him in my top 20 reasons to kill. That makes him a pretty high priority … too high. I’d be happy to do it at any time, but that time wasn’t here yet, and he still had his uses. Despite the brat(damn) being only twelve, there were a lot of channels open only to him bastard, and if he were to disappear, it would disrupt all balance in Seattle. That muchlevel of a keyman is irritating, but it would be better to just acknowledge it, in the long run. The image of him driving a Lincoln is just an angle, carefully strategized to increase his appraisal in the eyes of his peers, and hefucker knows even that has its advantages.
What an incredible, awful little shit this kid is.
Mills: Listen, and don’t tell anyone, okay?
I’ve stocked up on this valuable intel just for you.
It’s a ship from Antwerp.
Next weekend. Its cargo is unregulated and untested synthetic drugs - we’re talking the hardcore stuff. Nobody’s even tried it out yet.
I doubt anyone would notice if you happened to get your hands on some.
How about it?
Doesn’t that pique your interest?
Birkin: Don’t get carried away, kid.
My body’s still groaning at me over last month’s product.
There’s no way I’m letting some nutjob European scientist stick his whatever inside of me.
If it’s for a job, at least give me an ingredients list so I can rustle up some more information.
Mills: I guess you’re right … it’s kinda sketchy.
I thought it was a good story.
Still, I was just trying to look out for you.
There’s no pharmacist as tough as you! That’s really what I thought!
I’ll be 30 in October. Even though my body’s nowhere near the point of falling apart, lately I’ve felt like there have been weird changes in my joints and nodeslymph . I had a bad feeling it was a serious illness, but the back alley doctor assured me my bill of health was more than satisfactory. The next day it got so bad, I couldn’t stand the severe pain and went to the hospital, but the doctor there told me the exact same thing. I killed him on the spot. After getting more than 20 injections in my face, I started foaming at the mouth and suffered more than I ever had in my life. All things considered, I kind of looked and felt like a crab out of water.
No matter how you look at it, even if you’re just another softheaded idiot trying to spin it from different angles, giving anyone that drug wouldn’t be right. The result is severe pain, that could never be felt by an otherwise healthy person, spreading throughout the body. Like the unbearable agony of having your bodily flesh molded into something else entirely.
He explained that it was a German drug, but warned me first that it was just an unstable product, developed by a research student at some university. But... I think the truth was that he had been dazzled by the unusually high finder's fee.
Birkin: The information. Hurry and cough it up.
I don’t have much time.
Mills: Birkin, what’s wrong with you today?
You’re not fucking with me, are you? The way you’re acting is suspicious, you know?
Birkin: If you think I’m about to sell you out, you can drag me to the woods and drown me in the lake. Look, you’ve got all the time in the world to do that, don’t you?
Mills: Okay, okay! If it’s like that, then it’s fine … I get it, no harm intended.
Birkin: If you get it, then give me information on this guy.
Curtis Blackburn.
Mills: Curtis, you say … what exactly do you want to know?
Birkin: I’ve been targeted by him.
He sent me the advance notice letter.
Mills: … the death sentence.
Trouble follows you everywhere, huh.
Even someone as skilled as you. That’s really too bad about Curtis.
Birkin: Yeah, cry me a fucking river, but that’s why I’m asking you for information! Anything’s fine. Just keep track of his movements a week from now!
Mills: … I get it.
You’re actually not a bad guy.
I’ll find out as much as I can. I’ll do my best. No matter what.
Birkin: I’m counting on you.
I’d really rather not have to die.
Mills: Curtis is a buddy of minetrue friend.
Don’t worry. You’ll survive.
He jumped back into his Lincoln in a rush, ready to gethightail it out of there. Couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. That bratshit has a talent for sniffing out the smell of death. Otherwise, in this world, he’d have been dead a long time ago. No matter how hard you can hit, or how fast you can draw, a guy who can’t smell Death will be drawn into her sweet bosom and succumb to her deadly kiss. A topless womanbitch and the grim reaper - in my opinion, theyre the same person, 100%.
Mills: By the way, you …
Have you killed anyone today?
Birkin: Yeah, killed two already. Does that set your mind at ease?
Mills: It does.
It makes me happy to know you’re still in good graces.
With the devil …
Birkin: What’s that supposed to mean?
Mills: Yeah … I really don’t want to be involved with that one.
Sorry, but I’ll contact you again.
He reversed the Lincoln, then shifted into drive and sped out of control, leaving tire marks like he was trying to pour chocolate sauce on the ground. It was about time he replaced his tires. I should introduce him to a repair shop buddy of mine, and make sure the little shit gets ripped off while I’m at it.
Wrong … Something was wrong. A chill ran up my spine. A chill that made my blood freeze and my heart stop. The feeling of being targeted, not by a man, but by a beast. I’ve never once been attacked by a beast, but I’m sure my gut isn’t wrong. I’m scared to turn around. It was the same terror that overtook me just a few hours ago …
The sound of shoes approaching. Shit shit shit shit shit my body won’t move. Did my whole body freeze up? This is bad. This is dangerous. At this rate, I’m gonna piss my pants. The footsteps stopped right behind me. The pressure lifted for a moment and I was able to hold it in right in the nick of time.
For a 30-year-old man to have barely avoided wetting himself … I should have thanked him just for that.
But, well, this wasn't the time.
Dan: We meet again, Birkin.
I’ll introduce myself properly.
I’m Dan Smith.
The only man who can kill Curtis.
That smile of your is ugly as sin.
It’s like a face that’s been through hell.
I’ll be the one to send you to ParadiseHeaven, before you’re killed by Curtis.
At this point, I’m starting to wonder if maybe I’m somehow already dead.
-----
July 1, 2:32 PM
Parking Lot of the Diner ‘Knoxville’
( to be continued )
■ Commentary
『killer7』is an action-adventure title, announced by Goichi Suda in 2005. The protagonist is an elderly assassin in a wheelchair with seven personalities. Depending on the situation, each personality can be used for different purposes, and the story is advanced by hunting down and searching for various targets. The Dan Smith making his appearance here is one of these personalities, and is one of the most belligerent. Curtis is Dan’s mentor who goes on to kill him; they are destined to be rivals.
This “killer is dead” is unique from the game of the same name. It was published as a spin-off work of『killer7』 in six installations throughout Dengeki PS2 magazine, and remains unfinished.
Ten years have passed since the beginning of everything, and Goichi Suda returns to the Garden of Madness to finish his never-ending story.