VIII: Under Siege with a Vengeance

As they roared off into the night, the little fire breathing creature sat silently in the parking lot, watching the Cantina burn. It began to cry, and as it did, small teardrops of flames rolled down its cheeks. The flames fizzled to nothing as they hit the ground.

“Look! It’s one of those service planets,” the shifty and eccentric Johnny Go said as the silver Bilbao Guggenheim spaceship began its descent onto the tiny GasTron XQ Service Planet. Beside him, his beautiful and psychotic sidekick Dixie Doublestacks looked eagerly out the window and drained the last of a fireman’s helmet full of beer.
“I love service planets,” she said. “They usually have good snacks.”
“Like those things that aren’t hot dogs, but look like ‘em?”
“Oh yeah. What are those things called, anyway?”
“I’unno. Dog penises?” The ship slowed and engaged its hover capability to lower itself into the thin atmosphere. Once it was ground-level, Johnny steered haphazardly into a parking spot. The ship bumped into the side of the service plaza, startling a family of Corbians crossing the parking area at the start of their annual vacation.
“Hey, there’s a wirecomm service here,” Dixie pointed out. “Should we call Chichay and tell her we got the money?”
“Yeah, maybe she can just send it to the Trout Mob for us so we could get on with our sabbatical.” Johnny reached toward the communication device on the dashboard, connected to the planet’s wirecomm service, and keyed in the code for their Earth-bound colleagues. The machine whirled and buzzed for a few moments, then a voice came on the line.
“What?” Sweaty Mulligan whispered into the machine. There was a lot of noise in the background, but Dixie and Johnny thought nothing of it.
“Hey Sweats,” Johnny said. “Chich around?”
“Uh, we’re a little busy at the moment, guys,” Sweaty said. Before Dixie or Johnny could say anything else, the unmistakable sound of machine gun fire could be heard, and in the next instant the connection went dead.
Dixie and Johnny shrugged and headed out the rear hatch of their ship.

Earlier that day, on Earth…

The New Year’s Eve party at Certain Doom had seemed like a great idea. The reservations filled up almost as soon as the party had been announced, and they’d had their pick of musical acts offering to play that night.
The staff had had a great time collaborating on a special seven course menu, and Rex had brainstormed a menu of specially designed cocktails with their bartender, Paddy. The Troubadours selected two of the finest cattle from the ranch and slaughtered them just for the occasion. Knowing they were asking staff to work on New Year’s, Chichay and Sweaty offered a generous bonus to all. The price they were charging for the event far exceeded the cost to put it on, anyway.
The night started off flawlessly. Their patrons had taken the theme seriously - An Evening Dedicated to the Action-Packed Movies of the Canon Group - and were dressed as their favorite action stars of the production company’s heyday. Even the staff dressed for the occasion, with the bussers pulling off a pretty epic American Ninja group costume. The food was fried to greasy perfection.
They were on the fourth course of the evening, a plate of oreilles de crisse tossed with an aioli dressing and garnished with a sprig of tempura parsley, when a very drunk guest in a pretty decent Cyborg costume stood unsteadily from the table and announced, loudly, that he needed to bleed the weasel. He stumbled through the dining room toward the bathroom, bumping into several other tables on the way.
When he reached the hallway leading to the restrooms, he realized he didn’t know where they were or how to get back to his table, and his need to bleed was growing ever more desperate.
He reached the end of the hallway and still didn’t see the bathrooms. All he saw was a metal security door with a flickering red exit sign above it. He knew that the exit sign meant the door opened to the outside, but he was already facing a photo finish. He pushed the door open and stepped out.
The Cyborg found himself in the rear parking lot of Certain Doom. To his left was a large rusty dumpster. He raced over, unzipped, and let ‘er rip. It felt great. He actually moaned. He was so consumed with the pleasure of draining his bladder that he didn’t notice the group of ten or so men, dressed all in black, and heavily armed, who were milling around the back door. One, who had been standing beside it when he’d exited, held the door to keep it from closing. The rest watched him pee and waited.
He zipped up a moment later with a satisfied sigh and realized he was surrounded. Before he could say anything, a giant dressed in black pants, a black turtleneck, and with strands of straw colored hair peeking out from underneath a black beanie, roughly grabbed his arms, pinning them behind his back.
“We’ll take you back to your table now,” the man said, shoving the Cyborg toward the door. They filed in and the door closed with a clang.
A tall, skinny man with an austere beaked nose and terrifying dead eyes pushed through the others to take his place in front of the group. He was obviously their leader. They stood at attention. The Cyborg tried to, as well, but was now realizing just how drunk he was. Why had he had so many shots? Damn those delicious fried bacon shot glasses. It was like an out of body experience, being this drunk. He could see himself swaying back and forth, the iron grip of the man the only thing keeping him from slumping against the wall.
“When we enter the dining room, fan out along the perimeter, half on each side, until we have the room surrounded. Stefan,” he nodded to the man holding onto the Cyborg, “Stay beside me for my address.”
A moment later they marched into the dining room, unnoticed by everyone except Chichay Milano, who was trained to notice. She recognized her old enemy immediately and began to make her way toward her escape route, which she’d established for just such situations. She had reached a small foothold behind the bar and started to climb up toward a hinged panel in the ceiling when the staccato burst from a Heckler and Koch MP5 brought the room to a sudden, terrified silence.
Chichay decided not to stick around to hear what he had to say. She needed weapons and she needed them now. She climbed up the side of the ornate bar back.
“Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and days of auld lang syne?” Some of the drunker guests smiled, assuming this was part of the evening’s entertainment. But when the man broke into his version of a smile, everyone felt the cold fingers of dread creeping up their spines. “What a festive bunch you all are, in your little themed costumes. I abhor a theme party, but in this case, it suits my purpose.
“Those of you who don’t know me, which is most of you,” he paused and looked down his beaked nose with scorn, “because, let’s face it, none of you are sophisticated enough to be in my orbit, I am Clobber Spotchick. I am a man of many interests and many talents, and most recently I’ve been offered the opportunity of a lifetime to finally break into the movie business. While I personally don’t see how a sequel to Short Circuit could possibly lose, I want to do a little focus testing.
“The gentlemen you see here are my closest trusted advisors, and they’ll be taking you each aside individually to ask you a series of questions designed to gauge the potential box office success of such a film. I expect you to provide thoughtful, detailed, honest answers. Anyone not cooperating will be tortured.” The subtle suggestion of a laugh washed over the room. Clobber’s face contorted in rage and he turned to the man swaying beside him. He reached around to the small weapon tucked into his belt and removed it.
"This little piggy thought he could wee wee wee all the way home,” Clobber said, and fired once into the man’s skull. Even with the silencer, the sound echoed through the restaurant and the diners fought to suppress a terrified gasp, lest one of them be next. The drunk man’s body crumpled to the ground, blood seeping slowly across the floor. Clobber looked back at the room and nodded.
He strode toward the hostess station near the front door where Sweaty Mulligan was standing. He called over his shoulder to his men as he walked. “Anyone who doesn’t have good feedback can be dunked into the fryers, one limb at a time.”
“Where is she?” Clobber demanded when he reached the front of the restaurant where Sweaty stood, wearing a pretty decent Chuck Norris costume. Their hostess, Emmy, stood next to him. She looked surprisingly composed given everything she had witnessed in the past couple of minutes.
“Who?” Sweaty asked. He didn’t know where Chichay was, but he assumed that she knew what was going on and was working on it.
“Don’t fuck with me, you overgrown child actor-looking motherfucker!” Clobber said, barely containing his rage as he pushed Sweaty roughly against the wall. Beside him, Emmy flinched, but otherwise didn’t react. “I know she has it. And I suspect you’re the one who took it and gave it to her. I want it back.”
“Sorry, man,” Sweaty said, casually. “I give Chichay a lot of stuff so you’re gonna have to be a little more specific.” At this, Clobber wound up and socked Sweaty in the jaw. His head snapped back into the wall with a thump and his glasses, generally askew anyway, ended up hanging halfway off his face.
Sweaty gave his head two quick shakes, righted his glasses, and smiled. “I dunno, I never gave her that,” he said. Clobber wound up again, and just as he was about to let fly another blow, Sweaty opened his eyes wide in a mock epiphany.
“Oh!” he said softly. “You’re talking about the head, huh?” Clobber’s longing was visible in his face. He lowered his fist.
“Where is it?”
“No idea. You’re gonna have to ask Chichay.” Fury rose in Clobber’s face as he wound up again, but Sweaty just jutted his chin out, as if to make it easier for Clobber to hit him, and said, “It’s the head of her dad, man. She has way more of a right to it than you. She isn’t going to give it up.”
Clobber clobbered Sweaty again, even harder this time. His glasses went flying off and his head dented the wall. Beside him, Emmy flinched more visibly this time, but as she did, she noticed the space between the top of the bar and the ceiling. Sweaty stooped to pick up his glasses, rubbing his head, and when he straightened up again, he locked eyes with Emmy. She nodded imperceptibly toward the bar. Sweaty looked up just in time to see Chichay’s legs, clad in her Charles Bronson Death Wish costume, disappearing through a ceiling panel.
Sweaty smiled.

***

When Chichay Milano thought back to her childhood, it reminded her of watching the Wizard of Oz in reverse. At first, life was vivid, full of color. The sites, sounds, smells, and tastes of her home in Malaysia were dialed up to the eleven. She was comfortable, curious, and happy, with a loving family and no sense that there was bad in the world.
Shortly after her eighth birthday, all of that changed and she watched her old life drain away until nothing but black and white sadness remained. A period of intense loneliness followed, along with a manipulation of her memories that took years to unravel. When she finally uncovered the truth, she did so with a vengeance that at once made her the most admired and the most feared woman in the world, but did absolutely nothing to fill the hole left in her heart.
That wouldn’t come until later.

***

Anthony “Tony” Milano was an American military guy. Career track. Special forces and damn good at it. He was in Malaysia on R&R when he walked into a bank to change over some money and met the woman of his dreams.
Tan Xin Li was working as a bank teller, and although she found most of the tourists who came in tiresome, she was captivated when she saw Tony waiting in line. She didn’t usually find mat salleh attractive, but there was something about him, and she hoped he’d end up at her window. As luck would have it, he did.
“Seterusnya,” she called. He stepped forward. They locked eyes. He gasped.
Tony and Xin fell intensely, immediately, in love. He used every free moment to visit her. They were married within a year and their only child, a daughter named Chichay, was born shortly thereafter.
Life was difficult at first. Tony’s job kept him away for long stretches, so they made their home in Malaysia where Xin had family and friends. It didn’t make their time apart any easier, though, and they missed one another terribly whenever Tony was away. He was exhausted from traveling back and forth.
They were broke, too. Xin’s job at the bank paid little, and she wasn’t able to work as many hours once Chichay was born. Tony’s job, Xin was surprised to learn, paid terribly. The richest country in the world paid elite soldiers what? The amount was not at all commensurate with the risk regularly placed on his life.

***

Shortly after Chichay’s fourth birthday, Tony got an opportunity that changed everything. He quit the military and became a freelancer. Chichay didn’t know what that meant, but she liked the way the word sounded, both in English, which they spoke at home, and in Malay, which she spoke in school and on the playground. Freelancer.
As a freelancer, Tony was still away from home, but not as often, or for as long. He was allowed to choose his assignments and he made more money. Tony had been recruited by another freelancer named Clobber Spotchick. His real name was Pavel Ilyich Spotchik, but he’d developed a reputation for vicious overkill, which earned him the nickname Clobber.
There was an instability in Clobber that terrified Tony, but they worked well together. So far, every mission they’d completed together had been a success and they found themselves in such demand that they often turned down jobs. Still, Tony was always wary of his partner. While they professed to have one another’s back, Tony wasn’t so sure it was actually true.
Then one day, it wasn’t.
The job had gone perfectly up until the very end. A fat Southern Democrat threatening the decades-long stranglehold of his incumbent opponent. His rise to the top was meteoric, his popularity rivaling a rockstar despite his girth and too casual style. The opponent only believed in democracy up to a certain point, and then it was time to call for reinforcement. Tony nailed the shot, stowed the rifle, and walked calmly toward the getaway car, confident that Clobber had taken care of the details. When he reached the alley, the car was nowhere to be seen, and in the next instant all hell broke loose.
Tony didn’t remember what happened after that, but suddenly, he was in prison.
He wasn’t there for long. Clobber busted him out soon after he’d arrived, but between the betrayal and the shit he saw at Angola, Tony was a changed man.
He didn’t mention the incident to his family when he arrived home in Malaysia. Looking back on it, Chichay realized that he was never the same after that trip. He was still a fun and loving dad, but sometimes he would go quiet, his gaze distant.

***

Around Chichay’s eighth birthday, Tony announced that he was going on another assignment. Chichay and Xin thought nothing of it as he packed a bag and headed to the airport. The truth was that there was no job. He had gone to an ayahuasca retreat somewhere deep in the Amazon, an action Chichay later linked to that traumatic mission. But his quest to free himself of that incident instead cost him his life.
Chichay and Xin were having a quiet night in, listening to records and playing checkers, when there was a knock on the door. When Xin answered, she was surprised to see Clobber Spotchick standing there.
They’d met only once before, but Xin had heard a lot about Clobber. Enough that she didn’t totally trust him, but not so much that she refused to let him in.
“Mr. Spotchick,” Xin said. “Tony is away for work. I assumed he was working with you. I hope everything’s ok?” She stepped aside so he could enter. Chichay looked up from the table where they’d been playing and smiled shyly.
“Oh!” Clobber exclaimed in mock surprise. “That’s right! He told me he’d taken a solo job. I completely forgot.” He stopped, as if he intended to leave now that he knew Tony wasn’t there. He was banking on Xin’s hospitality to prevail. It did.
“Well, since you’ve come all this way, why don’t you stay for a cup of tea?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” she replied as she beckoned for Clobber to follow her inside. “Chichay, perhaps you could ask Mr. Spotchick if he’d like to play a round of checkers with you?”
Chichay obediently reset the board, giving Clobber the black pieces. He took a seat on the settee across from her, his long frame curling as he hunched closer to where the game board sat on the coffee table.
“Well my dear, if you’re anything like your father, you’re a checkers virtuoso.”
“Daddy’s not that good,” she replied simply.
Clobber raised his eyebrows in surprise. “No?”
“I beat him all the time. Ibu, too.”
“Your father has done an excellent job of instilling confidence in you,” Clobber said, preparing to make his first move. “You’ll do us proud.”
By the time Xin returned with the tea tray, Chichay had played Clobber into such a deficit that there was no way he could win. He tried to hide his surprise as he reached for the cup that Xin handed him.
“Just in time,” he remarked. “It appears I’ve been bested.”
“Yes, she’ll do that,” Xin said with a smile. She picked up her own cup and sipped. “So Mr. Spotchick. Tell us how you met Tony.”
“Surely you know the story?” He asked.
“Yes, of course. But I’d like to hear your version.” At this, Clobber nodded and sat back. Chichay quietly spun the checkerboard around and played Clobber’s next turn.
“In this line of work, a lot of strong men end up falling apart. So I’m always recruiting, looking for a certain type of person. With skills, certainly, but more importantly what I’m looking for is mental. There’s a bar near the base, it’s a favorite of the special forces guys. I stop by there every few months. When I first met Tony, I just knew.”
Xin smiled. “Yes, that’s how it is with Tony, isn’t it?” Clobber winced. Inwardly, he hoped, as the sharp stabbing pain of jealous despair hit him square in the chest. Tony. “How long did it take you to convince him?” Xin asked. Clobber tried to shake it off.
“A couple of weeks. I laid out the details for him, the pay, average length of the jobs, that kind of thing. He went on one more mission for the military, but I knew he’d be mentally comparing the two the whole time. He called me when he got back.”
“I believe it took a little more convincing than that.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. He told me about meeting you. He was adamant at the time that he wasn’t going to leave the stability of the military for the freelance world. I talked him into it.”
“Really?” Clobber was shocked. He’d wanted to believe that he was what had drawn Tony into the freelance world.
“I knew he would be happier if he joined you,” Xin continued. She reached toward the table for the teapot. “More tea?”
“Allow me,” Clobber said, lifting the pot and refilling both of their cups. His left fist curled tight against the teapot for just a moment. Chichay spun the checkerboard again.
“It didn’t take long to convince him, then?” Clobber asked as he handed the cup to Xin and placed the pot back on the table. She lifted the cup to her lips and sipped.
“Not very long,” she said. “And I certainly didn’t insist. I just, as you said, laid it out for him. Tony loves his job and his family equally, I think, and this was the best way to balance the two. He just needed to know that I supported him.”
They sipped their tea in silence for a few minutes before Clobber spoke again. “I suppose it isn’t a surprise that Tony’s family is his first priority.”
“Co-priority, I would say,” Xin replied with a smile. “Don’t underestimate how important his work is to him, Mr. Spotchick.”
Finally, Clobber finished his tea and stood. “I should be going,” he said to Xin as she, too, stood. She looked at Chichay.
“Chichay, Mr. Spotchick is leaving. Let’s walk him to the door.” For a moment, Chichay kept looking down at the game board. She had turned it so that she was playing the black pieces again. She made one final move, clinching the game for black, then looked up and smiled.
“I’ll be damned,” Clobber said. “You played my side and won?”
“You had one way left that you still could have won. But you gave up.”
“You’ll have to teach me,” he said to her. They walked together toward the door.

***

Several hours after Clobber left, Xin collapsed on the floor of the hallway after saying goodnight to Chichay. The thud of her mother’s body caused Chichay to leap out of bed. She raced to the door to see Xin convulsing violently. Staying surprisingly calm for an eight-year-old, she hurried to the phone to call the paramedics.
After the operator assured her that help was on the way, she ran to her parents’ bedroom, stopping in front of her father’s bedside table. He kept the nightstand locked, but Chichay had picked the lock many times. She ripped the drawer open, rifling through the contents until she found a small, leather-bound address book. She fanned through pages, stopping at an entry marked “CS” with several telephone numbers listed.
“Mr. Spotchick, something is wrong with my mama. I called the doctors and they’re coming, but I need to tell my dad. Can you find him?”

***

Clobber hoisted his pack up onto his back. He traveled as lightly as possible in the jungle, carrying only essentials. You never knew what you would encounter.
The Shaman stood behind him, along with two acolytes. They looked concerned.
“Please,” said the Shaman. “It is not safe without a guide.”
“There’s no time,” Clobber replied, striding over to one of the acolytes. He held out his hand. “Give me that machete.” The man felt he had no choice, and handed the tool over. The Shaman glared at him, then returned his gaze to Clobber, who had already turned away from the group. “If I’m not back in a week… Well, that’s that, then.”

One week later...

Clobber Spotchick emerged from the jungle filthy, covered in blood and dirt and other substances that would strike fear into the hearts of men. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair looked as if it was becoming one with nature. What was left of his clothes hung in shreds from his body, stained and wet with the unrelenting jungle humidity.
His pack was gone. Around his neck he wore a macabre necklace made of ears threaded onto a rope. In his right hand, he gripped the machete. A death grip, as if it was fused to his hand.
Clutched in his other hand was the severed, shrunken head of Tony Milano.

***

“Welcome home, little one!” Clobber exclaimed as he opened the door to the penthouse apartment, motioning for Chichay Milano to come inside. The apartment was lavish. The problem, from Chichay’s perspective, was that it wasn’t home.
They walked across the living room and Clobber directed her to a large bank of windows taking up most of one wall. Many storeys below, the city shimmered. Chichay stared disinterestedly at the view for a moment, then sank down on the couch. It was uncomfortable. Nothing like the warm, inviting furniture of her home. Her old home.
After she’d been whisked to the hospital in the ambulance with her mother, after ten anxious days sitting beside her, hoping, praying, trying, through the sheer force of her will to make her mother regain consciousness, Xin Milano had slipped away.
Reeling, Chichay walked out into the hospital waiting room, hoping to find her makcik, or her mother’s best friend. Instead, she found Clobber Spotchick. At first she was relieved to see him, then in the next instant, confused.
“Where is my dad?” She asked. He crouched down in front of her, a gesture that she found at once hilarious, due to his absurdly lanky frame, and condescending.
“Anak perempuan, your dad…” he trailed off. Chichay crossed her arms impatiently, the gesture maybe also intended to protect her from more bad news. Clobber sighed. “There was an accident. Your dad is dead.”

***

Clobber Spotchick became her legal guardian. It wasn’t until years later that Chichay questioned the legality of such an arrangement. But before she knew it, they were moving into his penthouse, which Clobber claimed to have lived in for years, but which had such an air of impersonality that she figured he only just bought it.
Although she wanted for nothing, Chichay was miserable. She missed her parents, her house, her friends. She was enrolled in the best school in Kuala Lumpur. The students were the children of politicians, diplomats, and high ranking military officials. There was even a girl there whose parents were movie stars. Not Hollywood movie stars, but by the way the girl acted, you’d think they were. She hated all of them.
For his part, Clobber oscillated between anguish over the loss of Tony and the role he played in it, and resentment toward Chichay for her ingratitude. And, if he was being honest, he was mad at Tony, too. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
The only thing that made the initial months bearable for either of them was that Clobber continued to take jobs, and thus was away for a few days at a time each month. During those periods, he hired a woman to look after Chichay, and Chichay found the woman’s utter indifference a relief. They interacted only superficially, and Chichay soon figured out how to give her the slip. From then on, whenever Clobber was out of town, she skipped school. All she had to do was make it back by dismissal time.
One afternoon, she ditched school and spent the day at a local movie theater watching old samurai movies. She checked the time, calculated how long it would take to walk back to school, then slipped quietly out of the theater as the next show started. She was about to turn toward school when she ran smack into Clobber Spotchick.
“Oh. Uh.”
“Come with me,” he said, grabbing her firmly by the arm. She slumped along beside him, assuming they were headed to school, but they continued past the turnoff.
They walked for a long time, through parts of town Chichay had never seen. Despite her despair, she was curious about where Clobber was taking her, and strangely not afraid. Even when he turned into an alley behind a rundown warehouse.
They entered through a side door and took a creaking set of rusty metal steps up two flights. When they exited the stairwell, they were in a long, dark corridor, lit only by a scattered few bare bulbs, flickering as if they were ready to give up.
Chichay peaked at the doors they passed, some of which were open. The building seemed like a mix of storage units and seedy offices. It smelled vaguely of fish. She could hear a voice screaming incoherently, but couldn’t tell where it was.
At the end of the corridor, Clobber stopped before a door that looked like the rest, but on closer inspection, seemed more solid. It also boasted a deadbolt and a serious padlock. He took a set of keys from the pocket of his immaculate black pants and unlocked the door, pushing it open slowly before reaching in and flicking a light switch.
“Since school obviously isn’t of any interest to you, it’s time you start learning the family trade,” he said, pulling her inside, closing the door, and sliding the bolt home.
Chichay looked around, shocked. The room was set up as a sort of command center. A desk took up one wall, holding a computer, communication and monitoring devices, and a small, battered Rolodex.
The wall above the desk, along with all other available space, was covered with weapons. Guns hung from racks and sat propped in locked glass cases. To her left was a utility shelf full of gun accessories, like silencers and high powered scopes. A metal cage to her right was full of swords, axes, clubs, and other combat gear. Next to the cage was a padded surface with all kinds of knives and daggers plunged into their hilts.
“A good assassin prepares for as many contingencies as possible,” Clobber explained. “And having a well stocked command center is essential to preparations.”
“Assassin?” Chichay asked, finally turning back to look at him.
“I guess your dad didn’t tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“That he was an assassin. Both of us.”
“My dad was a freelancer.”
“What exactly do you think a freelancer does?” Clobber asked simply.
“I…” She trailed off, feeling foolish that she’d never thought about it.
Clobber stood for a long moment, a far off look in his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was shaky with emotion. “He was the best I’d ever worked with. An absolute masterpiece, his every action. I could have spent forever watching him work.” He looked down at Chichay suddenly, as if he’d forgotten that she was there. “Anyway, I don’t know whether he intended for you to follow in his footsteps or not. But it’s my job to make sure you have a bright future, and at this rate, you sure aren’t going to get it from that school. Might as well see if your papa’s skills were genetic.”
“Don’t assassins, like, kill people?”
“Well look at that, you did learn something at school,” Clobber said. He pulled open a drawer and began hunting through boxes of ammunition, finally pulling one out. “There are a lot of foundational things you’re going to need to learn, but you seem like the kinda kid who needs a taste to spark your interest. Don’t think this is going to be the norm, though. You don’t get to train on weapons until you’ve learned a few things.”

***

“Killing people is wrong, though,” Chichay said as she hurried to keep up with Clobber.
“Right and wrong are subjective.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I take it back about your school,” he said. “Look, everyone’s got a certain amount of time in their life. When it’s your time to go, it’s your time to go. Even if that’s because someone paid an assassin to make it your time.”
“But you could say no and then that person would live.”
“No, then someone else would get paid to kill them. It’s capitalism, Chichay.”
They walked in silence for a while. Chichay turned this thought over in her mind. They were in a residential area, one that was rapidly being redeveloped. Shiny apartment towers grew up out of the ground like weeds, and construction cranes hovered like grazing animals. Clobber stopped before a partially completed high rise and looked up, shading his eyes, then marched into the building across the way.
No one said a word to them as they crossed the building’s lobby, even though they didn’t live there, and Clobber was carrying a huge black case containing a rifle. They stepped into the elevator and he pressed the button for the top floor.
“Are we allowed in here?” Chichay asked as the door slid shut.
“No. So consider this lesson one. As long as you act with purpose and conviction, no one will question you.” When the door slid open, he led her down the hallway to an emergency door marked roof access.
“I thought we would go to a shooting range?” Chichay asked as they exited onto the roof and Clobber strode across to the side facing the partially completed high rise. He placed the case on the ground, opened it, and removed the disassembled gun.
“The whole world is my range,” he told Chichay. “Come here and watch. In order to effectively use any weapon, you have to understand it. You should know each and every piece, how it’s made, what it’s made out of, how it works.” Chichay was captivated as Clobber assembled the gun, watching closely to see where each piece fit.
“This is a good starter rifle, but after today, you won’t shoot it again until you’ve shown me that you understand it.” When the gun was assembled, Clobber walked Chichay through the basics of its operation, then handed it over to her.
“You aren’t going to show me how to shoot it first?” she asked.
“It’s a rifle, not a nuclear reactor. You aim and pull the trigger. Although you should take your first shot from a prone position. It’ll keep your hands steady and minimize the kickback.” Chichay gave him a blank look and he sighed, then got down onto his stomach on the roof. “Like this. Then you aim out through this railing.”
Chichay did as she was told, instinctively holding the gun correctly. But when she looked through the sight, she stopped. “What am I supposed to shoot?”
“Any of the windows on the highest level completed in that building over there,” Clobber replied, gesturing vaguely across the street.
“Uh…”
“Look, they aren’t done with construction. They can just replace them. Consider it job security. Now quit stalling and take the shot.”
Chichay waited a little while longer, feeling the weight of the gun, looking through the sight, choosing a window. Finally, she moved her finger to the trigger.
“Breathe out as you squeeze the trigger,” Clobber instructed.
She did. It was a clean shot, right through the center of the window at the corner of the building. The glass cracked outward from the bullet hole like a spider web. Chichay felt a rush, a power she’d never experienced before. She wanted to scream, and was about to stand up and celebrate when Clobber spoke.
“Now the one to the right.” She calmed herself and took the shot. Perfect. “Fifth from the left.” She counted, aimed, and pulled. The shot was high, but she still hit it.
They continued this way, with Clobber calling out a window, until all the windows on that floor had been shot. Chichay put the rifle down and sat up. She was beaming.
“Not bad for your first try,” Clobber said, coolly.
“I mean, I hit them all,” Chichay replied, pride rising to the surface of her voice.
“They’re big windows and they aren’t that far away,” he said. Her face fell. “Tell you what,” he added, feeling guilty. “You see that church tower over there?”
It was a good distance away and she had to squint. “Yeah, with the red roof?”
“That’s the one. If you can ring the bell in that church tower, you don’t have to go to school tomorrow.”
A moment later, the neighbors wondered why the church bells were ringing at four twenty in the afternoon.

***

“But if I’m going to be an assassin, why do I need to go to school?”
“Because there’s no such thing as an ignorant assassin,” Clobber replied. Chichay opened her mouth to say something else, but he continued. “An ignorant assassin is a dead assassin.”
Clobber was walking Chichay to school. She’d gotten up very early that day and spent the morning studying the circuits in a detonation device that he typically used with C-4. She’d been reluctant to stop working and head to school.
“That’s why I should study the detonator,” Chichay insisted.
“And when you need to calculate the trajectory of the blast to ensure you’ve hit your target, the detonator will tell you that?”
“Well-”
“What about when you need to pose as a tour guide in order to infiltrate the House of Representatives in the United States? The detonator going to tell you how to explain the history of the U.S. Capitol building to a bunch of slack-jawed tourists who’ll run their complaints all the way to the top if their free tour isn’t up to snuff?”
“No, but-”
“Does the detonator tell you how much tranquilizer will incapacitate the guard tiger at the royal palace in Brunei without killing it?”
“No.”
“Did it even tell you that the palace is guarded by a tiger?” Clobber glanced down at Chichay walking sullenly beside him. He had made his point.
They reached the school a few minutes later, and he climbed the steps with Chichay, still not entirely trusting her not to skip. He opened the door and she stepped inside the school. They were late and the halls were nearly empty. She turned.
“Have you really had to do all that stuff when you’re on jobs?” She asked.
“All that and more, anak perempuan.”

***

Over the next five years, Chichay learned how to orchestrate death using all manner of techniques and equipment. In addition to becoming an expert with guns, she mastered bombs in various levels of sophistication, and learned how to set up and execute different types of intentional accidents, including accidents involving animals.
Her favorite was hand to hand combat. Clobber took her to many different martial arts masters, all of whom were impressed with her talent and dedication, but cautioned that she should consider combat only as a last resort due to her size. When she graduated to combat weapons, like knives, swords, and blunt objects, her teachers all agreed that her odds improved greatly when she possessed a weapon.
On her thirteenth birthday, she was allowed to begin vehicle training, something she’d been begging Clobber to let her do. Her favorite, without a doubt, was motorbikes.
Then, shortly before the end of her school term, Clobber announced that they’d be spending the school holidays in Europe. It was to be a combination of work for him, training for Chichay, and a general vacation for them both. Chichay was thrilled. She’d only been outside Malaysia once, when Clobber had taken her to watch the master swordsmiths in Japan the year before. Hardly a vacation, but she loved it nonetheless.

***

They arrived in Milan in the evening and checked into an astonishingly lavish hotel suite a short walk from La Scala. Clobber immediately phoned the concierge and requested, in flawless, neutrally accented Italian, that they send for a salesperson from a nearby, well known fashion house. His teenage daughter’s luggage had been lost, he explained.
“My luggage wasn’t lost,” Chichay said when he hung up. “And I don’t want to try on clothes. I’m hungry.”
“Chichay, what have I told you about conspicuous assassins?”
“They get caught.”
“Uh huh,” he said. He opened his own suitcase and began to remove clothes she’s never seen before. “The first thing you do when you work a job in another country is make sure that you don’t look like a tourist. People will remember a tourist, which means you could get caught. Or, worse, that you don’t even get a chance to do the job.”
“Not doing the job is worse than getting caught?”
He gave her a look, then entered one of the suite’s two bedrooms to change his clothes. “We want to make sure we look like everyone else living in Milan,” he called through the closed door. “I got these clothes on my trip here last month.” When he exited the bedroom, he was dressed in an obviously expensive suit.
“Now, what you wear is going to depend on the particulars of the job. In this case, we’re in an expensive part of the city, and we’re going to the opera. We need to look as if we’re part of the upper class. If we were here to assassinate some backwater capo, we’d be buying very different clothes.” Chichay listened, taking in all of this information.
“I have the means, at this point in my career, not only to afford high end couture, but to send someone out to bring it to me. When you’re first starting out, though, you’re going to need to do your own shopping. Tomorrow, I want you to head out and practice. You’re to find people your age and see what they’re wearing. Then figure out where they shop. I’ll give you a small amount of money. I want you to buy two appropriate outfits that will blend in with the crowd.
“Remember, you should always have a change of clothes. Never try to exit a job in the same clothes you wore to do the job. But you’re going to have to be creative, because I’m not necessarily giving you enough for two complete outfits.”
There was a knock on the door, and a moment later the suite was filled with rack after rack of glamorous clothing and accessories.

***

Chichay spent the following day on her reconnaissance mission. She befriended a group of teenagers hanging out near a fast food joint and quickly convinced a few of the girls to take her shopping. Once at the store, she got one of the girls to swap clothes with her, then proceeded to boldly shoplift a complete outfit while legitimately purchasing another with the money Clobber had given her.
She returned to the hotel a few hours later, buzzing from too much affogato, with a new pen pal, and three outfits for the price of one. Clobber Spotchick was impressed.

***

“Cast and crew mostly use this side door,” Clobber told Chichay. It was early the next morning and they were seated in an alley beside the opera house. Clobber was showing Chichay how he planned a job. “There’ll be a guard there by about noon. In cases like that, you either have to get inside before then and wait, have the credentials to get past the guard, or find another way in.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Well, in order to wait inside, I would have had to go to the performance last night and hide out, so that won’t work. Most of the other entrances are locked, and the windows are either high visibility or too small or inaccessible to fit through. That leaves phony credentials.”
“How will you get that?”
“Fortunately, I have a guy,” Clobber said, reaching into his pocket. He handed a small identification card to Chichay. It contained Clobber’s picture, but the name Enrico Monteverdi and the designation “esecutore”.
“This looks really good,” she said. She looked at Clobber, waiting for an explanation. He obliged.
“Yesterday, while you were on your shopping trip. I dashed through the alley screaming “Ladro! Fermi il ladro!”, then conveniently collided with the real Enrico Monteverdi. I swiped his card in the fall, apologized profusely, and ran off. Then it was a quick trip to see my local guy and have my photo put onto the card in place of Enrico’s.”
“Wow,” Chichay said. “But what’ll happen to the real Enrico?”
“He’ll say he lost his ID card and they’ll get him a new one. The cards are just names and photos, they don’t connect to any kind of system, so no one will know that there are two Enricos. I’ll wait for the security guards to change shifts before I go in today just in case, but they’re rent-a-guards so they wouldn’t notice anyway.”
“I’m never going to learn all this stuff,” Chichay said, suddenly overwhelmed.
“It does take some time to build up your skills and connections, but I don’t think you have anything to worry about, sweetheart. From what I’ve seen, you are absolutely your father’s daughter.”

That night...

Chichay dressed in the formalwear that Clobber had purchased for her. Up in the suite, she felt awkward in the soft, glittery gown, but as she stepped from the town car in front of La Scala, a sense of confidence washed over her. She wasn’t dressed any differently than the other patrons, and she was soon engulfed in the crowd.
Chichay had never seen an opera before, although Clobber frequently played records of original cast recordings while he worked. At home, she tended to tune them out, but watching a live performance of Pagliacci was riveting. The music seemed to change the way she breathed, as if it was coming from inside of her, rather than from the stage. And she was pleased to realize that her Italian had progressed to the point that understood most of the libretto.
She had lost herself in the story when, toward the end of the second act, she noticed that the actor playing Canio seemed different. She sat up and grabbed the small gold opera glasses that Clobber had given her. Placing them to her eyes, she could tell immediately that the role of Canio was now being played by Clobber Spotchick. Chichay braced herself for what she knew was coming.
As Nedda swore that she would never reveal the name of her lover, Canio advanced on her with the knife. Chichay kept the glasses pressed to her eyes, and was certain that she could read real fear in the actress’s face as Clobber crouched and plunged in the knife. The audience, even though most knew the story, let out a gasp. In the next instant, Silvio rushed to Canio, and was stabbed as well.
"La commedia è finita!!" The curtain fell.
“Bravo!” shouted the audience. They were on their feet, demanding a curtain call, which didn’t come. The longer the audience waited, the quieter they got, looking at one another, confused as to why the cast had not come back on stage to take a bow. Chichay knew why, and had already left the theater.

***

“Were they both the target?” She asked later as she and Clobber strolled down the street, eating late night gelatos.
“Nedda and Silvio? No. The Tenor was the target.”
“Canio? Then why did you stab Nedda and Silvio?”
“Anyone can sell death, Chichay. Death is cheap. It’s everywhere. I’m a merchant of mayhem. Of terror. That’s my value add. Besides,” he paused to finish his gelato, “they both die at the end of the opera. I didn’t write the story.”

The next morning...

Clobber and Chichay checked out of the hotel. A classic Maserati waited under the portico, and a hotel porter was loading their luggage. After giving the man a generous tip, Clobber climbed in and they drove off.
They made their way through the alps, Clobber driving at a breakneck speed, but always maintaining casual control. Chichay longed to get behind the wheel of the car.
They stopped and spent the night in several small towns high in the mountains. In each one, Clobber either assigned Chichay a task to help with her training, or he took her to see a site that would be educational. She knew that as a teenager, she should be complaining about anything educational, but she now viewed everything she did as essential to her future career.

***

Clobber had a job outside of Interlaken. Chichay was disappointed to learn that it was private, and she wouldn’t be able to watch. Instead, he dropped her at a nearby thirteenth century castle so that she could take a tour and practice speaking German.

***

In Geneva, they stayed in a villa overlooking the lake. Clobber informed her that he would be holding a series of meetings, and when she asked what she should do during that time, he explained that it was time that she started networking.
That week, Chichay met a number of players in the high stakes world of assassination. It was a valuable foot in the door, and many of the contacts she made were indispensable as she established herself in that world in the years that followed.

***

In France they attended a three day cheesemaking workshop, for no other reason than that Clobber said it was something he’d always wanted to learn.

***

They traveled north to a small French town near the German border, where Clobber had a job assassinating a local politician. It was the last job he had booked for this trip, and this time, Chichay was allowed to come along. She crouched beside Clobber, watching through binoculars from the roof as the assassin took the man down with one shot, clean between the eyes, as the town’s annual parade marched past.

***

The last stop of their trip was Antwerp. They arrived on a rainy afternoon and spent a few hours wandering around, eating waffles, and admiring street art. Without being asked, Chichay spotted a group of kids her age, then rushed off to buy an appropriate outfit. Clobber beamed with pride.
That night, Clobber told Chichay they were going to see a musical performance of Hamlet. Having become accustomed to high end culture over the course of their trip, Chichay was surprised when they arrived as a small, somewhat rundown looking club in a less than desirable neighborhood. She was even more surprised when they entered 3Mousquetaires and found that it was a drag club.
The talent on stage that night was astonishing, though. Chichay had found Hamlet to be tiresome and wordy when she’d read it in school that year, but the cast brought it to life in a way she hadn’t thought possible. She was so engrossed in the story that she didn’t notice Clobber get up from his seat and disappear.
Unlike the end of Pagliacci, the patrons of the 3Mousquetaires knew immediately that something was wrong. They, and Chichay, knew from the moment Clobber stepped on stage. But Clobber was a professional, and before anyone could really do anything, he’d managed to poison the actor playing Gertrude and stabbed the actress playing Claudius. Chaos ensued.
Chichay managed to fight her way through the crowd toward a poorly marked exit, where she found herself in an alleyway. Not knowing which door, if any, Clobber would escape from, she walked slowly toward the far end of the building and waited. Sirens rose in the distance, getting closer.
Just as her anxiety was about to get the best of her, a window opened high up on the side of the theater building, and a pair of gangly legs appeared. The full body of Clobber Spotchick followed, landing with a thud on a pile of garbage. She rushed over to him as he stood and brushed himself off.
“What happened in there?” She demanded. “I thought you didn’t have any other jobs lined up for this trip?”
He shrugged, then motioned for her to follow him. “This was personal.”

***

On her seventeenth birthday, Clobber presented her with a sniper rifle of her very own, kitted out with all the accessories she might need for her first job.
And then he told what her first job would be.
They would be traveling to a small Central American country on the brink of a civil war. The job was to assassinate a radical priest who had been far too sympathetic to the resistance. Clobber had accepted the job, ordered by a contact known only as “The Major”, solely to allow Chichay her first assassination, which she was to plan and execute entirely on her own. He would only go to observe. The money, which was far lower than his usual fee, was hers.
In the lead up to their departure, Chichay doubled down on learning Spanish, studied what she could on the conflict going on in the region, and attended mass at a Catholic church in Kuala Lumpur. She practiced relentlessly on her new rifle, as well as several others belonging to Clobber, and upped her unarmed combat training, just in case. She did all this while keeping her grades up to honors levels.
A month before the job, she awoke in the middle of the night and walked into the living room, where Clobber was reading a newspaper under a dim floor lamp.
“I know how I’m going to do it,” she said. He looked up.
“Oh?”
“At mass. He gives mass at a hospital every Monday. It’s open to the public. I’ll need to scope the place out and find a clear shot, then it’s just a matter of waiting for him to give his sermon.” Clobber folded his newspaper and smiled.

Three weeks later...

Chichay and Clobber arrived in the country for the job. He let Chichay handle the whole thing, and was mostly impressed with the thoroughness of her approach. She attended a mass given by the priest almost every day, altered her appearance to blend in with the community, and ingratiated herself with the locals in order to get the latest gossip.
On the day of the assassination, Clobber asked her if she was ready.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she replied. “You’ll be there?”
“Yes,” he told her. “I’ll go to the church for the mass. If anything goes wrong, I’ll do my best to block for you so you can escape.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I don’t think it’ll come to that, though.”

***

That evening, Clobber had a light meal at a nearby hotel restaurant, nervously perusing the newspaper as he ate. He couldn’t recall a time, even when he was just starting out, that he felt nervous before a job.
He checked his watch, paid his bill, and walked casually over to the chapel.

Meanwhile…

Chichay sat at a pupusería with a local driver she’d met through Clobber. She was dressed in neutral, drab clothing that looked like any other neighborhood worker. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and she wore a pair of plastic rimmed glasses, which she’d picked up in order to help camouflage the shape of her eyes (a practice she hated, and would abandon later in her career as her confidence grew).
She chatted calmly with the man, and with the woman who owned the restaurant. A small red car sat in front, ready.

Meanwhile…

Inside the chapel, the priest began his sermon. Clobber Spotchick was seated in a pew near the center. A movement slightly behind him caught his eye and he turned his head slightly in time to see a young man slip quietly out the door.

***

The phone rang at the pupusería and the proprietress answered.
“Si,” she said. “Gracias.” She turned to Chichay and nodded.
A moment later, the red car pulled away.

***

The priest finished his sermon and moved away from the lectern, standing in the center of the altar and facing the congregation.
Outside, the red car came to a stop in the street across from the chapel. Chichay Milano stepped out, casually crossed the street, and climbed the steps.
She entered the chapel, pulling the gun from her pocket as she did, and walked several rows down the center aisle. There, she stopped, raised her gun, and fired one clean shot into the priest’s heart.
She had turned and walked back to the door before the priest fell, and was in the red car, pulling away from the chapel, before the congregants could react.

***

Back in Malaysia, Chichay was getting ready to finish her final year of school. She had spent all morning studying for her calculus final when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Chichay? Mrs. Butterfield here,” a flowery, grandmotherly voice replied. Not that Chichay had ever known any grandmothers. “Is Mr. Spotchick in?”
“No, he’s away on a job. Can I take a message?”
“Oh dear. I’m afraid I have his order ready and was going to see if I could drop it off today. I’m heading out of town and he’d said he needed this it. Do you know when he’ll return?”
“He’s in Luanda, so he’s scheduled to be gone through Wednesday,” Chichay told her. “Do you want to just drop it off here?”
“Well, I wouldn’t ordinarily trust a delivery to anyone but the intended freelancer, but Mr. Spotchick tells me that you’re training to follow in his footsteps. Spoke very highly of your skills, too. I guess it’ll be alright. Will you be home in an hour?”
Chichay agreed, and hung up the phone. She’d never met Mrs. Butterfield before, but Clobber had spoken of her. She was one of the many suppliers, procurers, and specialists that he worked with. Chichay went off to get changed, and wondered what it was Mrs. Butterfield actually supplied.
The woman who arrived an hour later looked exactly the way you would expect someone called Mrs. Butterfield to look, and Chichay couldn’t help but like the woman immediately. She bustled into the penthouse carrying a crate of bottles, jars, and small containers that reminded Chichay of the supplies used in her chemistry class.
“Now,” Mrs. Butterfield said as she set the crate down on the coffee table. “I’m sure Mr. Spotchick has a safe place where he usually stores these things.”
“Uh…” Chichay said. “I’m not sure, actually. What are they?”
“What are they? These are his poisons, dear. But if you don’t know where he’s been keeping them, then no worries, they’re really ok to be left out as long as you don’t have children in the house.” She reached into the pocket of her floral house dress. “These two vials will need to be refrigerated. They begin to lose their potency once they come to room temperature.”
Chichay took the vials and agreed to get them straight into the fridge, then walked Mrs. Butterfield to the door, thanking her profusely. When she closed the door, she leaned against it for a moment, stunned.
Poisons. A perfectly legitimate, sometimes quite easy way to assassinate someone. Why had Clobber never taught her about poisons? She remembered the time at 3Mosquetaires, Gertrude foaming at the mouth, convulsing on the stage.
Then, suddenly, the memory of her mother collapsed on the floor forced its way into her mind. She tried to shake it off, but a flood of other memories followed. The long, agonizing hours spent by her mother’s bedside in the hospital as doctor after doctor attempted to help her. The doctors' questions. What has your mother eaten? Did she take any pills? The hushed tones as they spoke outside the hospital room door. Poison.
Chichay paced around the living room. She’d had no idea that poisons were part of Clobber’s assassination methods. She’d been in his command center hundreds of times. Where did he even keep these?
He must have another command center, she reasoned, then sighed. If it was in another random run down building in Kuala Lumpur, she’d never find it unless he’d written the address down somewhere.
Chichay strode down the hallway to Clobber’s bedroom and tried the door. It was locked, but she was inside in less than a minute.
She’d never snooped in Clobber’s room before. It was something she’d done to her parents all the time, but never felt interested enough in once she’d moved in with Clobber. Living with him didn’t interest her until she’d started her training, and then he’d seemed so open about everything.
She began to search the room methodically, but found nothing of interest. Clobber was neat and kept very few personal items. When he wasn’t on the job, he tended to wear the same all black outfit, and never had any accessories other than a watch. The top of his bureau was bare.
She moved to the closet and saw an array of clothing in different styles. He kept only the expensive stuff, but she already knew that. And anyway, he wasn’t going to have an address written down and shoved in a pocket. It was more like something you would keep in a safe. She scanned the top shelf. Hat boxes and duffle bags, nothing of interest in any of them. Then she checked the floor. Shoes were lined up neatly along the bottom. She scanned the row, seeing nothing unexpected, and was about to leave when something caught her eye.
A crack in the wall behind a pair of boots. Or, not a crack. More like a door!
Hastily, she shoved the clothing all the way to one side and saw that, indeed, the back of Clobber’s closet contained a door. She pushed it open and stepped through.
Chichay felt for a light switch and found nothing. She held the door open wider, letting the light from the bedroom in. It was enough to illuminate a cord hanging from the ceiling. She pulled, and light flooded the small room.
It was the width of the closet, and about twice as deep. It was set up like a command center, just like his other one, but contained fewer weapons. There was no work bench, and the desk was much smaller, although it appeared to get more use than his other desk. Beside the desk, she spotted a mini-fridge and a metal cabinet. Opening them both, she solved the riddle of where Clobber Spotchick kept his poisoning supplies. Chichay shuddered and continued to inspect the room.
Turning back toward the door, she noticed, tucked into the corner, a small table covered in nicknacks like small, carved sculptures, candles, dried flowers, and an intricately crafted incense holder. An alabaster bowl held several sets of beads. The center of the table held a small cabinet made of smooth teak, the handles of the twin doors made of ivory. The whole set up looked like an altar.
Strange, Chichay thought. Although he was knowledgeable of many religions and belief systems, he’d never professed an actual belief in anything other than orchestrating death and capitalism.
She reached for the cabinet doors and pulled them open.
Chichay let out a wail that was part horror, part confusion, part heartbreak as the severed, shrunken head of her father stared out at her from the little teak cabinet on Clobber Spotchick’s altar.

***

Chichay packed everything she could carry into two suitcases, wrapped her father’s head in an old t-shirt and placed it carefully in an oversized tote bag, and left the penthouse before Clobber returned.
At the airport, she booked a one way flight to the Amazon region in Brazil. She called several contacts she’d been cultivating and let them know that she would be off the grid for a bit, but would be in touch with them about work as soon as she returned. She penned a quick note to her pen pal and dropped into a post box.
Then, Chichay Milano locked herself in a stall in the restroom and sobbed until her flight was called.

***

It didn’t take Chichay long, using the skills she’d been taught, to locate the retreat her father had visited all those years ago. She’d emptied her bank account on the way out of Kuala Lumpur, and though she was uncomfortable traveling with so much cash, it came in handy as she made her way deep into the jungle.
When she arrived at the retreat, the shaman, much older now, didn’t seem at all surprised to see her.
She questioned him about the events surrounding her father’s last days, and he told her what he could, but didn’t seem to have anything to add from the point when he disappeared into the jungle. He’d wandered off, Clobber Spotchick had arrived to look for him, and when Clobber returned, her father was dead.
Chichay was disappointed, but she believed the man. After all, Clobber wouldn’t have taken a civilian into the jungle with him.
“I’m sorry you have come all this way and I can’t provide more information,” the Shaman said. They were sitting in his hut drinking tea. “When the tall man left, he took the memories with him.”
“What do you mean he took the memories?”
“The…” he gave her a sympathetic look. “The head. Your father’s head. Without that, we cannot even attempt a retrieval ceremony.”
Chichay was up in a flash and raced to the guest hut where she’d stowed her belongings. She grabbed the tote bag and returned, handing the t-shirt wrapped head to the shaman. He looked at it in surprise, then nodded.
“Yes. You must understand that you cannot unsee what you will see in the retrieval ceremony. Sometimes it is better not to know.”
“I need to know.”

***

That night, in the ceremonial hut, the shaman, assisted by his acolytes, performed a retrieval ceremony and extracted Tony Milano’s last memories before his death. Chichay, having ingested everything they’d given her, saw them as clearly as if she had been there.
The next morning when she awoke, she thought for a moment that it had all been a dream, but as she rolled over on her bedroll, she saw her father’s head sitting beside her, and he seemed to wink.

***

For Chichay Milano, the day she left the jungle retreat marked the beginning of the next phase of her life. She spent six weeks in Salvador, Bahia, planning her next move. From there she flew to the United States with a single purpose: To become a better assassin than Clobber Spotchick.
With each successful mission, Chichay’s renown grew in the freelance community, and Clobber’s rage grew right along with it. He must have understood, deep down, how it had been his actions that led to this moment, but he was not a man capable of admitting to his faults. Besides, he wanted Tony’s head back.

Several years later...

Chichay had accepted a job to assassinate a visiting professor at the University of Nebraska. It was there, posing as a college student that she met Sweaty Mulligan. He, too, was posing as a student, but was in the process of robbing the chem lab when he encountered Chichay. The attraction was immediate, and they spent a fun afternoon on the quad, talking and telling stories.
Finally, late in the day, Chichay decided to take a leap and took Sweaty Mulligan back to her dorm room. She didn’t do this kind of thing often, but there was something about him.
When they arrived at the room, though, they found that it had been broken into. It was ransacked, but the only thing taken was her father’s head.
She seethed with rage and searched for the head for the next three years, but it was ultimately Sweaty Mulligan who got it back.

Back at the restaurant...

One of Clobber’s men raced across the restaurant to where he stood near the front door with Sweaty Mulligan. The man was frantic.
“Sir, something’s wrong with one of the fryers! Oil is shooting out everywhere!” Both Clobber and Sweaty turned to look. It was true. Fortunately, the fryers were behind a glass enclosure, but it was still a dangerous situation. Another of Clobber’s men was backed into the corner, shrieking as burning grease splattered, burning through his clothes. Sweaty sighed.
“Your fucking guys turned the temperature regulators up, didn’t they?”
“Now how would I know that?” Clobber spat. He turned to the man. “Did you?”
“We wanted to make sure they got really burned,” the man replied.
“They’re carefully calibrated,” Sweaty said with a sigh. “And more than that, they’re calibrated for what we cook in them. So if you’re dunking my fucking patrons in there, this is exactly the kind of thing that was bound to happen.”
“You could have told me that!”” Clobber screamed, his face red with rage.
“You didn’t ask,” Sweaty said with a shrug.
“No,” Clobber said, turning to Sweaty and drawing his gun. “I didn’t ask. But now I’m ordering you to go and fix that thing!” Sweaty shrugged again and walked off through the dining room full of terrified patrons. Emmy stayed at the hostess station until they were about halfway across the room, then took off toward the back office.
She slid to a stop at the office door and burst inside, just in time to see Chichay Milano descend from a panel in the ceiling. She landed lightly on the floor and gave Emmy a wry smile.
“Glad you’re ok, Em.”
“Yeah, you too,” Emmy said. “I saw your feet disappearing into the ceiling. Should I call the police?”
“No,” Chichay replied. She crossed to the far side of the office where a tall, locked cabinet stood. Emmy had always assumed that the cabinets were full of restaurant and office supplies, so she was shocked when Chichay pulled them open to reveal a full command center on one side, and an impressive armory on the other.
“Huh,” said Emmy. “I guess all the weird shit that goes on around here makes a little more sense now.”
Chichay began pulling guns out of the case and handed one to Emmy.
“It’s time to finish this. I should be able to dispatch with his lackeys pretty quickly, but I’m gonna need backup and I assume he’s got Sweaty cornered.”
“Yeah,” Emmy said. “The fryer boiled over and the one guy came out crying about it. The main guy, what’s his name?”
“Clobber.”
“Yeah, Clobber. He made Sweaty go in there and fix it.”
“Perfect,” Chichay said. “Which fryer room?”
“The far one.”
“Ok, we’re going up through the vents again. When we drop down, I just need you to keep this gun pointed at Spotchick. Shoot him if he even thinks about making a move. You need me to show you how to use that?”
“I’m from Texas.”
Chichay strapped several more weapons onto her body, including a long dagger that she stuck into the side of her boot, then closed the cabinet doors and boosted herself up from the desk. When she heard Emmy crawl up after her, she started to make her way back to the dining room.
“Emmy,” she called softy.
“Yeah?”
“I’ll explain all this later, ok? I promise.”

***

Chichay dispatched with Clobber’s men with such alarming speed that, when Emmy heard about it later from the busboy she occasionally liked to make out with, she was severely disappointed that she’d had to spend the whole ordeal keeping her eye on Clobber Spotchick. But before she knew it, Clobber was the last man standing.
He and Chichay faced off in the middle of the dining room, both with their hands on their weapons.
“Just give me the head and no one else will get hurt,” he snarled.
“How ‘bout you get the fuck out of my restaurant so I don’t have to reimburse Mrs. McNeely for the clothes that are about to be covered in your brain matter,” was Chichay’s retort. At the table nearest Clobber, Mrs. McNeely, a regular diner, reached for her napkin and slowly attempted to cover her blouse.
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
Clobber sighed. “It’s all I want,” he said, lowering his gun.
“You took everything from me,” Chichay replied, her grip tightening. She slipped her finger lightly onto the trigger. “Why should you get that, too?”
They stayed that way for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Chichay spoke again. “Emmy,” she called across the room. “Unlock the door so Mr. Spotchick can leave.” Emmy moved to the door and unlocked it. She pulled it open and held it wide. Chichay motioned with her head and Clobber, his body somehow not admitting defeat, backed slowly toward it.
When he finally stepped outside the restaurant, Chichay and Emmy closed and locked the door.
“Now you can call the police,” Chichay told Emmy. “Food’s on the house,” Chichay shouted to the dining room. Paddy! Open the bar!”

***

It was mid-morning by the time Sweaty and Chichay made it back to the ranch house. They were bruised and bloody and had collapsed on the couch with boxes of leftovers from the party when the communication device on the bookcase chirped. Sweaty got up to answer it.
“Hey guys,” he said as Dixie and Johnny appeared on the screen. “What’s up?”
“We’re in jail in the Moidi System. Can you get us a lawyer?”