StarkThe Man With The WhiteHat stood at the side of the rural highway that led into the smalltown of Stark, Nebraska.“Population: 563,”he said aloud as he read from the green metal sign that signified thetown limits. “That’s about to get much smaller.”He grinned as he pulledout his phone and sent the first of many texts, whistling BabyElephant Walk by Henry Mancini as he typed the quick message.“And there we go,”he sighed. “Wish I could stick around for the carnage, but there isblood that needs letting elsewhere.”He took one last look atthe horizon and the far off buildings showing proof of civilizationin the barren Nebraska landscape, and walked back to his crimson 1964Plymouth Valiant.He frowned at the soundof protesting metal the driver’s door made when he opened andclosed it, vowing, for the hundredth time, to oil the hinges as soonas possible.He continued whistlingas he turned the Valiant around and sped away into the afternoon sun.
And from the hell he’dunleashed on the unsuspecting town of Stark.***“Got another one ofthose?” Stan Culver asked, pointing to the cold beer in hisneighbor, Jamie Drudger’s hand, as he stepped up onto the porch andout of the unseasonably warm autumn sun.“Don’t you know it,”Jamie grinned as he flipped the lid off his battered and duct tapedStyrofoam cooler. He grabbed a can of PBR and tossed it to Stan asthe thin, muscular man sat down in an aged whicker rocking chair.“You know they sellnew coolers at Howard’s, right?” Stan teased.“Don’t taste thesame,” Jamie frowned as he kicked his legs up and set his heels onthe porch railing. “Mine works just fine.”“There’s morechemicals in your old piece of shit than in the new ones,” Stansaid as he took a swig from his beer. “As I have told you a milliontimes.”“And I don’t give afuck,” Jamie grinned. “As I’ve told you a million times.”“Just looking out foryou, pal,” Stan responded. “Wouldn’t want you to get areputation as the white trash neighbor.”Jamie looked out on theunkempt lawn and overgrown bushes that framed his one bedroombungalow. “Nope, wouldn’t want that.”
The two men sat quietly,sipping their beers as they watched the sun slowly set over thehouses across the quiet street. Most houses were a similar version ofJamie’s: small, one or two bedroom bungalows, built back in themid-sixties. They were efficient, plain and functional. Exactly whatthe population of Stark needed when the town was first put together.Stan finished his beerand held out his hand. Without a word, Jamie fished out another canand slapped it in Stan’s open palm.“Thanks,” Stansighed.“You bet,” Jamiereplied.***Marlene Watson looked atthe text on her phone one more time as she rounded the corner ontoCable St. “You have been paid,”the text started. “Now do the job. Kill everyone in 1356 Cable St.Everyone.”Marlene had spent betterpart of the day staring at the text, not quite believing that herlatest job meant breaking the second law of the Code: Do Not ShitWhere You Sleep. Contract killing wasn’t permitted in Stark. It washow things worked. The problem was thefirst part of the Code: Finish The Job You Are Paid For. That was therub for Marlene. She took the money, a cool million, without knowingtarget or location. Not unusual in her line of work, she’d takencontracts plenty of times without specifics.
But, she’d never heardof a contract being set within Stark. It was supposed to be offlimits. Even if a person knew about Stark, which very few did, theywouldn’t dare start trouble within the town itself. It just wasn’tdone.Marlene started walking,her head swimming with the Catch-22 she faced. Before she knew it shewas looking at the small front porch of 1356 Cable St. Her tool ofthe trade, a six inch Boker Neck knife tucked up her sleeve, restedheavy against her forearm even though it only weighed a mere fourounces.She took one last lookat the text, stepped onto the porch, and rang the doorbell.
But, she’d never heardof a contract being set within Stark. It was supposed to be offlimits. Even if a person knew about Stark, which very few did, theywouldn’t dare start trouble within the town itself. It just wasn’tdone.Marlene started walking,her head swimming with the Catch-22 she faced. Before she knew it shewas looking at the small front porch of 1356 Cable St. Her tool ofthe trade, a six inch Boker Neck knife tucked up her sleeve, restedheavy against her forearm even though it only weighed a mere fourounces.She took one last lookat the text, stepped onto the porch, and rang the doorbell.