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WHY I STARTED

This is the post excerpt.

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I write poems, articles short stories and series.

I want to reach out to all the voiceless throngs in the world and let their voice be heard. Get deep inside your hearts and bring out the true emotions that lie within you.

In here, you will meet different people and different scenarios every Thursday. If it intrigues you so much, like, comment and share the links. But first, FOLLOW the account. Drag your friends along.

Lets get going.
©Rashid Hunt 2017

ONE SHOT ONE KILL: CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER THREE: THE RENDEZVOUS

Time has been more or less like every physical entity. It is just that it has always been vaunted curative powers, since time immemorial. I always fed on it. I always embraced patience. I always waited. The correct time to strike was not to be speculated but established. That is better than blowing everything up. It saves on energy and also on time. Just as the words of a certain philosopher which go as “Be sure to put your legs in the right place, then stand firm.”

All these thoughts of time and optimism saturated my brain and  a man who came from behind, taking my Smith and Wesson .38 special brought me back to reality. The other guy was still pointing the gun towards me. My heart was drilling through my ribs. I felt nauseated. For the first time in my life, I was afraid. I had to put my hands in my pockets as so these bozos won’t see them shaking. What gave me hope was that these guys were not cops. If they were, where are their badges? What bugged me the most is how they knew my name. Jack Cork McCummings was a fictional name. After the real me died.
The guy sank in my chair. He was rolling my Smith and Wesson .38 special in his finger as he made himself comfortable. He spoke. “Great job you did Marcus, I’ll take it from here.” No sooner had Marcus put down his aim than I turned him round and skillfully took his gun out of him. My left hand firmly on his neck and my right hand pointing the gun on his head.
“Wow Jack. Relax. We are here to talk.” The other guy spoke so candidly. He was still rolling my Smith and Wesson .38 special.

“Start talking before I blow his brains.” I said.

“Don’t do something you will regret.”

“No one tells me what to do.”

“I am Abraham Satraken.”

“What?”
Abraham Satraken was the owner of the armoury where I ordered my guns and ammunition. We never met because the order is done online and the deliveries always go to a different address. Then I could pick up my parcel later on. Payment was made before deliveries. By bank.

” I know all my clients and since you’ve been a consistent buyer, I did a speed check on you. I have to know everyone so no one can turn on me. You have a great deal of skill, I’m impressed. ” He spoke with a face life had chewed on.

“What do you want?” I asked condescendingly. Holding Marcus even more firm.

“I have a proposal for you. I give you assignments. Fire arms on discount. Most of them will be international missions.”

“I work alone.”

“If you don’t want to be a part of it, you can do only this one. It has to be executed. It has to be perfect. It has to be you. I’m not begging, I’m insisting.”

“My pay?”

“Goes through me. There’s a good potato in it cork sucker.”

“I’ll sleep on it.” I said. Face expressionless.

“Great talking to you Jack Cork McCummings.”

“Next time. Get your formalities right. Its Jack Wolf.” I said as I let Marcus loose.

“There will never be a next time Jack Wolf. Give me your answer before today midnight. Anchor is up by midnight, don’t be late.” Abraham Satraken said while handing me my Smith and Wesson .38 special. He opened the door.

“Oh! Look who’s hungry. Pizza is here.” Abraham Satraken added.
Marcus snatched his gun and followed Abraham Satraken. I put my Smith and Wesson .38 special at the back and waited.  For the pizza ofcourse. I had even forgotten that I had ordered pizza from Dick’s. Dick’s always delivered their pizzas at my doorstep every Thursday and Sunday night. At exactly 17 minutes to 10 o’clock.
Apart from gas, pizza was the only thing I paid by cash. The delivery girl always handed the pizza, took the cash and left. Today she spoke.

“Those guys have colder eyes than yours.”

I was silent. Still wondering if I was so transparent.

“You are the only one out of town who orders pizza at night.” I was silent.

“Your wall click is 6 hours and 11 minutes ahead. Creepy.” That captured me.

“Hey observant woman, you making me uncomfortable.” Already feeling my gun. Prepared.

“Racheal,” she said. “Although its written on my tag.”

“Allan,” I lied. “Your cash is on the table.”

“Have a good night Allan.”

“Great night to you.” I faked a smile. I watched her drive away. I closed the door. I put off the lights.

I sat down and reflected on the day. It was fucked up. I had no ride. The thoughts of Abraham Satraken pissing on my face and  Racheal shitting even more were disturbing. I knew death if I saw it. It wasn’t nigh. I kinda liked Racheal because she had been nice. She was beautiful and had a fine posterior to match with. For Abraham Satraken, it was more than blackmail. He was desperate and I was the only hitman who could deliver. If I ordered ammunition that day, someone had  to die. That was clear and evident. 13 missions all successful. 13 and counting because I just got started. I looked at my wall clock and did the maths. It was 17 minutes to midnight. I took my laptop and typed an email to ASSAD, Abraham Satraken Supplies of Armoury and Deliveries. ‘I’m in.’ Almost immediately, a reply came.

Agent: Anonymous

Mission: Terminate the target

Date: 19/7/2015

Time: 1540 – 1550 hours

Target: Miguel Garcia

Mexico Minister of Education

45 years of age

Location:  Malinalco  at a press conference.
Hint: silver rings on fingers of left hand.
If you accept the assignment. Send ACCEPT.

Thank you.
©Rashid Hunt 2017

ONE SHOT ONE KILL: CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO: 17 SECONDS OF DEATH
One evening when the sun was at its most beautiful state, I lay still and quiet at my required position. With my Barrett. 50 Cal in front of me, already in position. Relaxed. I also carried a Smith and Wesson .38 Special just in case some uncertainties came by. The orders I got before the mission were so clear. Rules were upheld. No names. Half of the payment made before the mission and completed when the mission was confirmed successful. Payments made by bank. My bank account was untraceable. Cash flows and activities erased every 17 seconds. The holder unknown. It was like it never existed, but it was there.
“Target heading your way. Do you copy?”

I hurriedly put aside the bread and packet of milk that I was eating while crouching in the deserted house. Some of the milk poured, but I didn’t care. The job was worth a pool of diamonds. The procession moved so slowly to their desired destination. Wherever the were heading. I didn’t care. All I knew was that someone in the inside was coordinating.

“Copy that.” I replied. I knew which car he will be driven in and at what position he would be sitted at. In the car. Although the windows were tinted. All closed. I could still see the target. It was like I had a form of power embedded in me. More of a strategist than shear luck, the rays of the sun were alongside my aim. No reflection was created.
I was very sure the coordinator, who was female, didn’t know me. I always put my identity confidential. I worked alone. The tales of partners turning on each other and blowing each other’s brain matter off was not pleasing.
She started the count down from 17 down. When she was 5, she became quiet. I counted by heart. My finger firmly on the trigger of my lover. I released one of my babies and the perfect shot got the eye of the target and the bullet went through and out on the other side of the head. Bam! No air resistance. Perfect shot.

The fracas, noises, screams and uncontrolled pandemonium gave a  chance for me to gather my equipment, put it in place, get on my motorbike. Ride away. No sooner had I fled than a black car was on my ass. I could see it from the side mirror how hard it was tailing me. Fuck! The nigger had security, agile security. They were on the verge of getting on my ass when I took out my Smith and Wesson .38 special and shot the driver dead. My aiming was stunningly accurate. It was exquisite. One shot one kill. Take the shot or lose the chance. Well I shot at them because I could not afford getting caught. I did something wrong. I carried the murder weapon. We were always supposed to leave it. That is one of the sniper rules. But I loved the Barrett. 50 Cal. This mind blowing single shot, bolt-action weapon comes with a maximum fire range of 2600 metres. And, it can shoot through a wall! I called it my lover, I didn’t part with it. I even slept with it. It was this emotions that always made an assassin vulnerable.
The pursuers stopped, got out and shot at me, intently wanting to draw the life out of me. All this time I moved towards the suburbs, I pulled them to where there was less attention so my escape could be easier. Strategic retreat. I got into the Catullus Woods heading North. I dumped the motorbike in a hole, cleaned, no prints. Took a North Eastern bearing. I knew where it led.
It took me 13 kilometers to get to the Maori highway that led to my home which was situated at the outskirts of town. I got home just in time to get the 9 o’clock news. What hit the breaking news was the assassination of the tycoon. His picture was on the screen and a poem written under it. I felt the poem was familiar. I recalled it was a requiem by Robert Luis Stevenson. It apparently was my favourite. 
As I finished reading the poem, a text popped up in my cell phone. 

“$375,000 deposited for the account number 06678149256 at 9.17 pm on 17/7/2015.”

I heaved a sigh of relief. Before I sat down, I heard a loud knock on the front door. I thought of opening the back door to go check out the front door from the outside, it was safer. With my Smith and  Wesson .38 special in my hand. No sooner had I opened the back door than a gun was raised and the muzzle on my forehead. My hands were up without being told to raise them. The gun did not freak me out. What freaked me out was what the one who bore the gun said.

“Jack Cork McCummings you are under arrest for the attempted murder of AbdulMutwalib Sagaf. What you say may and will be used against you in the court of law.”

©Rashid Hunt 2017 

ONE SHOT ONE KILL: CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE: THE GENESIS

It was a lie. It always has been. It was always there, staring, telling me that here is not where you belong. It was a life of lie. Living a life of another person. There was this constant voice at the back of my tenacious mind that was urging me towards a completely different life. A life that I lived before I died and reincarnated or maybe resurrected -because I maintained my body- to what I had become.
Nine years before meeting the Chief of the  MESS, Middle Eastern Sniper Syndicate  whom I met six weeks ago, I reported at the gates of Ghazi Baida Terrorist Group. I just had a notion that Ghazi Baida is where I would take all my bitterness after a gang slaughtered my parents, and assassinated my younger sister -who was taken out- on her way home from school. The police found her body with a single bullet hole through her head. That meant that one shot was fired and it must have been close and accurate enough for the bullet to go  through. No one blamed me for not following suit but the culprits always left one person alive, so that he would tell the tale. That is where they messed up.
Ghazi Baida was a quiet place and I will not put out so much information about it because I was put under an oath not to take out any information. Although they clossed down 6 months after I left. No names were involved just badges with a unique mix of letters and numbers. My badge read, A230385. I underwent a full 7 years course on  advanced assassination and learnt how to get away after a murder. With all that training, no one in the Murder School had a heart, not even the commanders who pushed us to and fro. 7 years of sleeping 4 hours every night, 17 minutes of eating which were broken down as 4 minutes for breakfast, 8 minutes for lunch and 5 minutes for the evening meal, and the  rest of the day was spent handling guns and following orders. Only some few breaks and weekends were not acknowledged. Maybe I was doing all that because of revenge but my spirit kept me going. Many of my fellows died within the initial starting months because of a lot of hard labour ,but, I kept on.
The memories of my dead family kept torturing me but my will made it easier for me to grasp. I always remembered the triggers and the critical analysis one would do before striking, I captivated, I absorbed, I was assimilated. I found studying of the human body in the Sniper unit ,at the first year of the admission, very interesting. I could spend my hours set aside for sleep to read. I knew that with all that knowledge, I would get an affluent human who would hire me as a hit man. I made a choice to kill, not for pleasure, but for money. And I promised myself that I would put to justice those who killed my family since justice was not prevailing and the legal system was already corrupt. My promise was set and there was no way I was going to betray myself. But first, I had to learn how to kill and not get killed. I made a choice. I died, not on the outside. In the inside.
© Rashid Hunt 2017

ONE SHOT ONE KILL: PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE
She jumped out of the bed and ran wild to pick up the ringing phone. I lay there like a dead vegetable, startled, saying nothing. Nothing was running through my mind. You would mistake me for a zombie. The best I could do was breathe and wait for the next step. Racheal always liked to dance and sing to my ringtone word by word. I found that childish but she enjoyed it and I had no right to rob her off her happiness. She would sing until it stopped ringing, then hand me the phone the second time it rang.
Racheal loved my Ringtones. It was Adelle who always sang. On this day,Adelle and Racheal sang :
This is the end

Hold your breathe and count to ten

Feel the earth move, and then

Hear my heart burst, again

For this is the end

I’ve drowned and dreamt this moment

So overdue I owe them

Swept away, I’m stolen


Let the sky fall

When it crumbles

We will stand tall

Face it all ,together

Let the sky fall

When it crumbles

We will stand tall

Face it all, together

At Skyfall



This day, she sang, glanced at my phone, kept quiet then passed the phone. The caller’s name read Witch. I didn’t want to ruin our second year anniversary with Racheal. I fucking put it clear to the bozos that I won’t take any assignments, not until I’m done celebrating with my woman.

With the type of vocation that I had, I was not supposed to have any strong links to people or even fall in love, but then love comes, and there we were.

Racheal did not know what kind of job I was doing. All I had to do was tell her that it was safer that she didn’t know, and just like magic, she understood. At least that was one thing I could count on her.
The weird name made her angry and the fact that I didn’t pick up made her angrier. I didn’t want to ruin the moment of course, so I soothed her with oils of words.
Things took a turn when the Chief himself sent a text and it popped up. It read:

Jack, our efforts are futile without your input. Get your ass in the fucking conference room, its the only shot we got. Renege on me at the expense of your girl.

If the Chief sent a text, in bold, then it should have been something that none of the other monkeys working round the clock could do. Fuck, things were getting out of hand.
©Rashid Hunt 2017

THE GAME

Let me tell you about a game I play

Where I close my eyes and fade away

I float away to a special place

Beyond the stars, moon and space
In this place, you see

There are only two people, just you and me

In this place, all is right

Nothing but love and we never fight
No courts, no cells, none of that madness

And neither is there sadness

No rules to follow, no laws to break

No one to hold us or separate
No one to tell us we can’t kiss or touch

I don’t tell you I love, I show you how much
But eventually the game must end

My eyes must open and reality to descend

But someday I’m not sure when

I’ll close my eyes and play the game again

©Rashid Hunt 2017

DUST ON THE SEA

My tears did not stop pouring, it was like I had acquired a tender of filling a swimming pool at the middle of a desert and the best I could do was cry. The note that Arthur Clarke had written was submerged in my tears and my convulsions made my hands weaker; I could hold nothing anymore. Batra, who was my most loyal companion sat on my laps, he joined my weeping although no tears came out of his face. He was a beautiful cat. Our meeting was very peculiar and I was more of a master to him, because I understood his anger, his hunger, his laughter, his exhaustion, every bit of his feelings. Arthur loved him too because I starved with him and when it came to celebrating my affluence, he was a part of it. He knew that I was weeping to take out all the bitterness that laid inside and he didn’t mind the fact that I was weeping like I was to baptise him with tears. Was it suicide? Did he know his fate? I wasn’t sure of all this but one thing I was sure of is that the day when Arthur Clarke died, something died inside me. I don’t know what it is, but I will find out in the soonest of time.

I had put Arthur Clarke on a pedestal, it  was so strong that I even thought he was immortal. Actually, he knew that it was all risky but he went on with it. I lay in painful confussion.
We had been seeing the dust on the sea – which was something unprecedented- since the previous month. Our own curiosity led us to go and find out what caused the dust to float and not dissolve in the sea, or even sink. Was it really dust? Was it natural? Did it have effects or not?
To reach the dust on the sea, we were supposed to swim across some planktons, then swim on top of a natural depression, then get to the dust. That was close to a kilometer and a half from the sea shore.
On that day, the tides were low. So we manoeuvred  through the water with ease. The dust consisted of a thick circular layer of sand. It was purely sand with a little impurities. It smelled of lilacs. This floating suspension was just out of this world. As we filled our bottles with the mixture, I started to feel my feet being pulled. My ingenuity led me to deduce that the distortion of the composition created a vacuum. Then suddenly, the mixture started to sink, were also sinking. Arthur Clarke gave me a mighty push. He strategically did that when a tide was coming so I was moved further by two metres away.  Under the water, I saw the circular motion of water and Arthur was hopeless in its might. He was being pulled to the centre, farthest below where I noticed a big dark hole.
The distance to the sea floor was unfathomable. Well you see, time of death is more elusive than most people think. Death by asphyxiation takes only several minutes. That’s a very long time when every cell in your body is screaming for air. I made a decision and swam back to the shore. I had no mixture with me. I had lost everything and no body would believe what I had seen. Trauma hit me hard and for once in my life I regretted doing something. I then woke up and vowed to myself that I will accomplish all that Arthur Clarke had started so he would be proud of me wherever he is. I promised to stay true to my oath.
I picked my waery self up and put Batra aside. I picked up the wet note that Arthur had left in my book the previous night. I started rereading it with controlled emotions.  I read it out loud this time so that Batra could listen, may be he could understand. I read like my whole life depended on the reading. I read it without sighing. The note read:
Robby Palmer

Let me sleep for my soul is intoxicated by love and let me rest for my spirit has had its bounty of days and nights. Let me embrace the arms of slumber for my open eyes are tired.

Dry your tears  my friend and raise your head as flowers raise their crowns to greet the dawn.

Do not sing of the past for the song will rob you off all these life’s pleasures. Sing of the future with smiling lips even though your voice is reduced to silence and do what I wasn’t able to achieve, that is when my soul will be at peace.

Disturb not the air’s tranquility with chanting and requiems but let your heart sing with me the song of the future. Talk not of my departure with sighs in your heart. Close your eyes and you will see me forevermore.

Here, I can hear music of heaven in exact harmony with my spirits desires. I am cloaked in full whiteness, I am in comfort; I am at peace. I have gone to rest upon the wind but in due time, I will be born again of another woman.


Arthur Clarke


© Rashid Hunt 2017

SHE’S A BIRD, SHE’S A PLANE

Intelligence is an intoxicating quality in a woman

For it is absent in most men

I concentrated for months on end

To feel how she thinks

For it takes me to heaven
Its is human nature to believe;-

In something greater than you

I studied her demons, her religion

But retained my own

Although they sang to me
You are  a teddy bear in the streets

A warrior in the sheets

She sang this melody in my dreams

I sank in the delicious tunes

The bird effect
I don’t believe in angels but;-

I believe in planes

She is not from heaven

She might take us  there

The plane effect
It is a great disappointment

That the good ones are always taken

She knows I can give a liver for her

For I massage the truth

With the oils of words
©Rashid Hunt 2017