2010-02-22: Cocky Ones Get Caught



Date: February 22, 2010


Jo is left with her thoughts, a bottle, and a letter.

"Cocky Ones Get Caught"

Jo's Apartment — NYC

Although it’s a tiny bachelor apartment, Jo’s apartment seems huge, at least in size. The room itself contains a single black cot (not a bed) — designed specifically for camping — that can be easily set up and taken down at a moment’s notice. An ugly metal coat rack designed for nothing but function sits in the corner and is lined with various clothes — marine uniforms (including dress whites), black suits, and matching high heels underneath each outfit.

Perhaps the most disturbing part of the apartment is the decorating on the walls. Or, rather the tracking on the walls. The left side wall is lined with a large map of the United States loitered with push pins. Notes are attached to the pushpins — notes about deaths. Strings line the path from one death to the next. It’s a tracking sheet of sorts.

On the wall opposite the map various newspaper articles, profiles, and the like are pinned up. The articles are all obituaries and paranormal death circumstances — all with the same basic death; people looked aged within minutes of their passing. The bodies decomposed at an increased rate. The profiles aren’t what a person might expect either, they are all of one person: Theodore Scott. He’d been acclaimed in his training, and somehow she managed to get every commendation, every training, all of it on her wall — all centered around a photo of her only real target.

The apartment itself is immaculate — cleaned inch by inch meticulously — every corner cleaned with a toothbrush, every spider web removed from the high corners and every window scrubbed down — not that a person could tell. The windows are covered in sticky notes asking questions about why the trail has gone so cold.

The kitchen itself contains no food, or at least nothing that a civilian would recognize as food. Boxes of military issue MREs are contained within Jo’s cupboards. The military issue dried packaged food is easy to transport and doesn’t go bad should it be transported elsewhere.

A giant 72 Litre blue pack rests against the cot for a quick getaway should it be needed at the drop of the hat.

The door to the apartment opens. Jo is home, for once. She walks over to the kitchen cupboard and places a brown-bagged bottle on top of it along with her mail. Running a hand through her hair, she studies the bag and purses her lips before greedily she peels the paper bag from the bottle. She uncaps the bottle of Jack’s and brings it to her lips, taking a giant swig. 

It’s a lonely life for an assassin, but then this was her mandate all along, wasn’t it? She was determined to kill one of her brothers — killing a few colleagues shouldn’t be a big deal, right? She brings the bottle to her lips again as she glances at her wardrobe; she’s going to need softer clothes if she’s going to befriend some pansy scientist. With another frown she takes yet another swig of whiskey before placing the bottle back on the counter. The sign of an addict is they can’t walk away. “I can stop whenever I want,” she says to the bottle as she walks towards her black cot to lay down.

Not thirty seconds pass before she’s up again, lingering around the bottle. The amber coloured fluid has that appeal to her as her fingertips graze it. She hasn’t grabbed it yet. “I’m no addict,” she repeats. “I control my own demons, they don’t control me.” And then her attention turns to her mail; something else to focus on — a distraction of sorts that can be engrossed.

Furrowing her eyebrows she peers at her letters. Bill. Bill. Bill. Bill. And… what’s this? No return address. Narrowing her eyes she glances at the door and then back at the letter. Curious. With her pointer finger, she opens it with one fluid motion. Carefully, she takes the letter from the envelope which only causes her eyebrows to furrow further. It’s typed, there’s no residue indicating where it came from and it’s oddly simple. It reads:

Dear Jo-jo,

Hope you’re having a wonderful day!


“What the hell is this?” she asks the bottle as her face wrinkles into a scowl. “I… who sent this crap?” Thinking nothing of it, she takes one of her thumbtacks and pushes the letter into the wall next to Teddy’s credentials and courses. Who else could it have come from? She’ll catch him; he’s getting cocky, and the cocky ones always get caught.

Idly she walks back to the bottle, plucks it from the countertop with a sly smile spread across her lips before she wanders back to her cot. Time to think through a plan to catch the beast.

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