My target stepped out of the elevator, with me behind him. Had I already waited too long? Without the confined space, would I find time to strike? We walked side-by-side, he and I, talking like men not facing morality in that hardest of ways—by forcing it on others. As yet he showed no sign of suspicion. Was it not odd to him that I'd accepted his invitation so willingly? I rarely buy snacks from this convenience store. Surely he knew. Surely. We walk in. I pick up a juice. “100% Apple,” it advertises. I wonder briefly if that makes it more wholesome than me and my grisly deeds. He picks up something—candy? Chips?--somehow I'm past caring, but surely a man so near to his death deserves that attention. I can't give it to him. I glance at our third companion, another who volunteered to come along. What's his angle? Is he thirsty, caffeine-starved? Or is he after me? I stand with my back to a wall, hoping I don't cause suspicion. We meet friends there, by chance, and trade pleasantries. I worry that my anxiety shows as I pace a bit with my pretense of an apple juice. As we leave, Tyler—his name is, was Tyler—Tyler steps in front of me, and I realize that if I don't take my chance, no hope remains. He would do the same to me. Maybe he's planning to. I reach out, and grasp his shoulder—not hard enough to cause pain, but firmly enough that he's aware. I look into his eyes, filled with surprise and a growing dejection, and apologize.
Damn, I should skip the whole geek thing and just write melodrama. So, my floor's playing a game called Assassins, which many of you have probably experienced. For those who haven't, let me summarize: A group of people sign up. One person, in a game master role, places them in a circle-formation of targets. Each person is targeted by one other, and have one target themselves. Kills are scored in various ways—I've heard of squirt guns being used, as well as slitting throats with feathers. In some countries they use actual guns. Once you kill someone, you inherit their target. Usually some safe zones are implemented, which are especially necessary since we all live together. All public areas in our floor of the dorm are safe zones, but the rooms and bathrooms are not, which is yet another reason to lock your doors. (I would at this point also express concern about certain individuals climbing in your windows, snatching your people up, but our windows don't open and are ten floors above ground level. The way I see it, if anyone gets through the window, they deserve it.) We played one round the last two weeks of last semester, and another started as we arrived this semester. One of them went quite well for me, one ended early. I didn't win either, but let's explore these tales, because this game is crazy fun. You ever read a conspiracy theory and think it must be interesting to be paranoid? This is like that except that there really are people out to get you.
The first game, I received my first target—a man who, for anonymity purposes, will be called Jon. His real name's Jon, but we're still going to call him that. Not long after receiving this target, I see Jon and another friend of mine leave the part of our floor behind the key card swipe, which means they're in the elevator lobby. They're still safe there, but unless they're going to the girl's side of the floor, those elevators are about to turn fatal, I decide. I'll pretend I'm going somewhere innocent so I can catch an elevator and get them as they leave. I walk out, calm, collected, and hungry. For blood. As soon as I walk out, Jon calls to me, “Hey Zach,” he says unwittingly, “Want to come to Braum's with us?” I grin and reply wittingly, “Of course. Of course I want to come to Braum's with you.” (Note: Braum's is a fine establishment which serves hamburgers, fries, shakes, ice cream, and other food I don't care nearly as much about. Just so you know, there's no product placement deal.) (Note: Braum's executives: I would totally do a product placement deal.) We go, and I get a chocolate shake and drink it while Jon and [REDACTED] eat lunch. I watch them and try to think of something cool to say. Finally, we start to leave after someone buys milk. Before we walk out the door, I say to Jon, “Did you enjoy your meal?”
He gets a puzzled look on his face, and says “Yyyyes...?”
I say, “Good” and grab his arm before exclaiming “BECAUSE IT WAS YOUR LAST.” Oh hot damn. I am totally cut out for this business. Look at that! You think Lee Harvey Oswald had that sort of thing lined up? I doubt it. I bet he didn't even have a milkshake with JFK beforehand. (Booth, “sic semper tyrannis” is pretty good.)
I lasted until the final three, and when I and my target were having a staredown in the hallway, I slowly walked backwards into my room—and got tagged by the other guy. Stupid, stupid, stupid. But that's what happens when you play for keeps.
This time, well, I told you about Tyler already. Not long after, as people started arriving back from winter break, I stepped briefly into a friend's room to talk to him as he unpacked, and THE SAME GUY got me. The same way. Embarrassing. It would be like if, instead of ascending to heaven, Jesus just started walking around pissing off the government again. So it didn't last as long. That's fine, that's fine. Soon this round will end and a new one will begin. And you know? I think I'll be tearing shit up. Just watch.
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