I'm sitting in a coffee shop right now, typing away on my mom's laptop in the hopes that I can get something on paper to work with on my essay. I only need one more source and one more quote....I think. Yeah, that's right. Anyway, I want to write something.....junkfood. That's what I want to read now, too. Just some junkfood reading, no highclass fiction. Anyway, I might work on an FC post, but I won't post anything there until I have at least five posts ready. That way we have a few items ready to go and you get to read some stories by me a couple weeks in a row.
Here goes the junkfood:
Hi, my name is Pierre. I was born in Montreal, but I live in Denver, CO. You might be thinking to yourself, "Well, I know your name, but who are you?" Well, that's a good question. Who are any of us, really? But I'm sure you don't really care, phillosophically speaking. I am a hitman. "Really," you think. "That seems a little cliche, especially considering the person writing this story." Well, it's the truth, and you can take any preconceived notions about how this is going to turn out and place them in a location to be disclosed at a later date.
I live in Denver because it's beautiful here, and I've been shadowing my current target for the last two years.
"Who is he?" you ask.
Well, what makes you think it's a "he"? It's not nice to assume. Besides, if I told you his name (go ahead and grin, it is a man) you'd be able to tell the cops who killed him. I can see him from where I sit, though. He's sitting on a couch in a local coffee shop, listening to music, I think. He has books spread out around him, but he isn't really looking through any of the. I'm sure you and I both think he's taking a break from studying.
Can you see him? He has short hair, a little scruffy. He thinks it's fassionable, but the blue jeans and tee shirt contradict that statement. His glasses have a simmilarly fassionable look to them, almost as if he belongs in nice suit. He should eat more, too.
Why do you care about where we are? Leave it alone, I can't tell you.
He's typing away on a laptop, probably for a class. I wonder if he know's I'm watching him.
No, I'm not going to kill him yet, there's too many people in here.
Oh, he's getting up. He's walking over to the counter, ordering a drink. Going to smoke while your drink is being made? Bad move. I pack up my things, step outside, I introduce myself and shake his hand. He doesn't know that I just poisoned him with a needle in my palm!
It won't be long now, he'll go back inside, get his drink, sit back down to type some more, but by the time he