when robert was nine years of age, he spent a day with his family at a lake. it was a camping trip, and they've found their camping grounds after a long ardous day of trekking. he recalled the sights as he stepped onto the clearing, tall green trees with trunks that were so thick, growing so densely that if you spent enough time staring at them, trunks and the gaps in between them flipped-flopped so that you'd think you were surrounded by a wall of wood with slivers of dark gaps in the grain. the lake was remarkably calm, its surface mirroring the sky above it. the edges of the water was clean cut. indeed, it was as if the lake was an illusion, and a giant oval mirror was situated smack in the centre of the clearing.

the air smelt fresh - the smell of passing showers and minty gum. the green grass crunched underfoot as robert ran around the clearing, ecastic at the prospect of spending what would surely be a splendid day and night at this place. his parents cautioned him about running too far away and getting lost in the jungle, but when one was a little before ten years old, such admonitions tended to evaporate in the ether between robert's parent's mouths and robert's ears.

robert jogged towards the lake and propped himself on his knees at the edge of the water. he could see his young face in the reflection upon the calm surface. he wasnt a cute child, but already one could see the dark brooking handsome starting to take shape. he reached his hand into the water, breaking the stillness, and ripples cascaded across his face like so many wrinkles that would've come to impress themselves in the years to come.

the water was cold.. too cold. the feeling travelled from robert's hands and across the highways of his senses, culminating in a tingling sensation in his spine. if robert had only more life experiences, he would identify it as a premonition of something going trribly bad. it was the feeling you got when you turn round a corner whilst running, and you see something big, bad and full of potential hurt heading your way. it's the feeling a dog gets when two full beams of headlights shine right into its eyes, as if they were lasers and they were gunning directly for the exact optic nerve that turned the dog's brain into a rusting conglomeration of mashing gears. the feeling robert felt, it rooted him to the spot, his brain sensing something, but his body going on strike. this hesitation robbed robert of the chance to find out whose hand it was that he felt on his back. the chance to find out which of his parent was the one who pushed him into the lake, and if he or she was smiling, crying, or worse, emotionless, when it happened.

all robert could do was snap his neck up and take a final look at the forest before him. it had flipped-flopped once again, so that the trunks formed a solid wall. but this time, the dark gaps in-between looked infinitly evil, as though they were slits in which all the hurt and sorrow of the world could escape from, and influence his parents. as he tumbled into the water, a brief revelation presented itself to robert. despite his young age, he understood nobody was going to come to his rescue. his outstretched hand above the surface of the water, the freezing cold water, would never find another warm human hand to grasp. the water had became his world, and the warm summer forest above it was another lifetime away. his vision clouded, first from the water, then from the lack of oxygen. as light from the sun dimmed, and robert sunk lower - his lungs already spasming, trying to reject the water that filled it, he realised all the innocence of his youth stood no chance against the world and it's evils.

jim dated jane a couple of years ago. their relationship started out in a pretty unique way - they met on a charted MRT train. whatever events transpired to grant jim a pair of invites to a nokia underground party at a secret location (later found to be marina bay), we will never know. what we DO know is that jim, at that time persuing engineering studies at a local polytechnic, asked a coursemate of his to accompany him to this event.

the initial part of the party went on pretty well. jim and his friend spotted a couple of local celebrities and the usual smatter of eye candy. it was still early in the night and as they boarded the charted train from orchard mrt station that will eventually bring them to the party proper, they still felt pretty awed by their very first invitations-only bash. now, mudane things happened along the way, and during the first half of the night. things only got interesting when drinks were being served at the venue. it was the typical screwdriver housepour, with, get this, cubed chin-chow (Grass Jelly. traditional chinese desert). either the chin-chow amplified the effects of the vodka present, or the bartender really didnt hold back on his shots. ejther way, jim and his pal got pretty half-smashed and jim was invited up on stage as part of a dance contest. At that time, jim was too muddled in the head to figure out he'll probably embarress himself up on stage, instead of dazzling everyone (with his newfound two very drunk, very left, feet.) lo and behold, he didnt win the comp, but he remembered a fellow competitor, another fellow drunkard. some american reporter or writer, and he stuck his name tag on his forehead (oh everyone had to wear an adhesive name tag. guess it'd be easier to pick people up. and jim had this werid white hair extentsion. on his short punky hairstyle) they each won a consolation prize of 1 Rush Hour Soundtrack CD.

now there was another participant who was pretty gorgeous and jim and his pal tried to pick her up but she was attached. unfortunately. but through some werid way, jim managed to obtain her number. on the way back, feeling quite pleased with himself (as it was the first time jim actually asked a girl for her number. a feat attributed more to the vodka in the screwdriver chinchow than to sheer balls), jim's pal commented that a fellow female invitee, with her female friend, on the next carriage was pretty cute. jim puffed up his chest and tried to persuade his pal to approach her, just like how jim approached the attached girl previously.

jim's pal refused. so after a pause, jim went ahead to do it himself. he introduced himself and jim's pal. only he was quite drunk, and he did it for 5 or 6 times. already quite embarressed, jim's pal tried to drag jim away, but the recalcitrant jim insisted upon talking to jane, the cuter of the two girls. they got talking, and when they were leaving orchard mrt, jim decided in his infinite wisdom, that he should ask if the two girls were in fact lesbians. the girls laughed incredulously, and it hit jim later, much later, that one of the girls was in fact lesbian (butch) but the girl whom he was interested in wasnt.

he hurried along the dark footpaths within the alleyway, frightfully aware of the precarious situation that he is in. the litter-lined street was boxed in on both sides by the high brick walls of delipidated buildings, like some narrow urban ravine. the stink of the sewers engulfed his nostrils - the pungent aroma of oils, fats, phlgem, decaying algae and food. a long cylindrical object, looking very much like a soda bottle dropped from his hands into a gutter. his boots splashed from potholes to potholes in the twilight of not a moon or mercury-incandescent bulbs, but of ambient light pouring from the neon signs advertising products that usually dont deliver.

the boss was waiting for him at the dead end. nobody but the incredibly stupid or the incredibly brave chooses a meeting place of which there is no chance of escaping. but the boss knew. he trusted his courier would not do anything to endanger his own life, and the life of his lover, of whom the boss, by proxy of his loyal underlings, has control over. the boss was a repungent man, wearing a suit that accentuates his extreme obesity. a stranger to deodorant, he blended in perfectly with the smells of the alleyway.

the guards were in a relaxed state, but uncomfortable in their polyester suits. only one of them was lucky enough to be the designated driver for the night, and so endured only boredom as she waited in the airconditioned comfort of the car. each of them were handpicked from young, as they roamed around the streets controlled by the boss, and they owed him their upbrining, no matter how skewered it was. prostitution and pimping by 14, drugs at 18, tasting the sweet adrenaline rush of their first kill soon after, and the sour afterglow as it leaves you. some of them never made it past their first gangfight, but the ones that made it were always harder, tougher and infinately more suited to the job of ensuring the longlevity of the boss. after all, what good is a corpse to a living person, except as a testimonial that we're all very much mortals no matter how much our money, power or fame makes us think otherwise?

the briefcase jounced along the thigh of the courier as he turned out of the last series of bends that will lead him to the boss. he missed his lover terribly so, and could not wait for this job to be concluded and to have a reunion. paying no attention to the little dots of laser sights that painted his torso, he slowed down his pace as he walked calmly towards the boss. his eyes were taking in the environment just like how his teachers used to teach him, each painful lesson seared forever into his mind, like a branding iron on the hide of a bull. he calculated angles, ambush points, potential covering positions, some of which looked promising on the onset, but will prove a fatal choice as the rotting woods yielded to the relentless propulsion of copper speeding at 800 feet per second. the guards were trained killers no doubt, but the courier was trained to be as close to a personification of Death as possible.

the boss appraised the lanky man who walked slowly towards him. in the business, the boss often could tell from the way a man walked how he felt inside. his trusted courier, walking slower than usual seemed to be preoccupied with something. he fiddled with his fat jowls, glancing at his guards for reassurance. nothing would go wrong. they could cut any man in half before the boss even had a mind to take cover. besides, this courier was someone whom he'd used on many occasions, with good results and no disappointments.. much unlike the product that the billboard behind him was proclaiming, he thought.

the courier stopped. 10 metres away. red laser trails were still roaming around his chest and he bit down on his molar.

when the glass covering his rear molar, on the right side of this lower jaw, shattered - 3 things happened in quick succession. exposed to saliva, the mirco-circuit within the glass ampule collapsed into itself and trasmitted a single long burst of coded message on the 2.4 gigahertz band. the cola bottle which the courier dropped previously contained eapproximately 1 kilogram of high tech plastic explosives surrounding a crude but efficient radio receiver which was in turn connected to a detonating cap. the radio receiver was mated via 2.4 ghz to the micro-circuit within the courier's molar and when the coded transmission was received, a small electric current was passed on to the detonating cap, which caused it to create a small powerful blast that destabilises the chemical constituents of the main explosive compound, decomposing the plastic explosives and creating an explosion that left one side of a building crumbling and a roar of heat, light and sound.

enough heat light and sound to distract the guards for a heartbeat or two. but that was all the courier needed.

sidestepping left and flicking a concealed switch within the briefcase, he executed a perfect cartwheel, dodging the first volley of gunfire which zipped through the empty space that the courier once inhabited. he flung the briefcase across in a graceful arc towards the windscreen of the car, the big sheet of glass immediately registering the impact with a cracking sound and a resulting spiderweb. upon hitting the windscreen, the shock-sensing relays contained within the briefcase detonated a smaller yield of the same plastic explosives that was used in the inital blast. the female guard in the car never had the time to finish the curse that was formed upon her lips.

the courier, already recovered from the first cartwheel, took the time that the guards were using to realign their sights to reach within his suit and withdrew two long throwing knives. with a quick glance to his right, he flicked forward his right arm and the knife found it's home in the forehead of the first guard. throw with such force it was buried to the hilt.

with the second volley of gunfire about to erupt, the courier took two steps to the wooden crate left on the side of the alley and jumped up upon it, and off it - doing a backflip which faced him, albeit upside down, with another guard who was covering the only exit of the deadend. another flick of his left wrist. the guard dropped, his machine pistol still equipped with a 30 round mag. his left eye gazed out lifelessly, pupil fully dilated. his right eye is the new home of a 9cm throwing blade.

stunned, the remainder of the guards, which numbered 4, began to run out of their concealed positions in the bid of getting a clearer shot of this, evidently very skilled, courier. they were practioners of the art of killing, and chose to fire only very discriminate shots. a decision which would ultimately and inevitably, lead to their deaths as the courier was counting upon the very training that prevents them from filling every single cubic inch of the area with hot flying lead. after all, you could dodge calculated shots if you knew the calculations, but you could never predict where random shots would end up.

the courier ran in an awkward pattern, seven paces towards the body of the killer who was guarding the exit. bullets whizzed past him, and gaps where his flailing arms once were. he looked like a spastic kid running in the special olympics, but every move was calculated to mislead the killer's next point of aim. two paces, he dropped his right shoulder to avoid a bullet beind fired from behind,crouched low and pumped his right leg. the courier fliped down upon his back, right hand scooping up the machine pistol, aimed and squeezed the trigger. 3 rounds exited the barrel of the pistol, 3 rounds entered the mouth of the guard furthest from him, sliced past his lips, shattered his teeth, ripped his tonsils and spiralled through his spine at the base of his skull with kinetic energy to spare.

the boss was speechless as he saw his guards, his esteem guards, being mowed down with silent precision, and with absolutely no pause on the part of the courier.

the bodyguard nearest the courier realised his life was over when he heard the fatal click of a firing pin finding an empty chamber. very soon, two rounds were nested like comfortable hamsters in the soft tissues of his lung, and a third exploded within his windpipe. he would live in agony for the next minute as he suffocated and choked in his own blood.

the courier was up and running by then, towards the two hired guns that stood before him. jumping as the guards fired simultaneously, he flung the machine pistol towards the face of the guard on his left, twisted his body sideways so as to present a smaller target for them, and punched out with his left arm, connecting solidly with the cheek of the guard on his right. when a machine pistol flies towards your face, you instinctively duck and that is what the guard did, and the courier used his lowered shoulder as a stepping stone, planted his right foot squarely and executed a perfect 180 degree kick that connected with the other guards temple, which folded under the steel toed boot. the last guard looked up with both a mixture of grudging respect and hatred.

the courier smiled, the only emotion he allowed himself after the whole time, and ducked just as the boss fired his personal sidearm straight into the courier's back. the well aimed round, finding nothing to stop its onward trajectory, found solace in the left cheekbone of the final guard.

the courier picked up the machine pistol even before the guard finished twitching, spiralled around and squeezed the trigger, and held it down. 25 rounds flew towards the boss, a man with a girth so wide it really was like trying to shoot the side of a barn. except that a man like the courier never misses.

the courier walked calmly towards him, and in the last moment of vividness granted to the boss, he realised the reason why the courier he most trusted would finally betray him in such a spectacular fashion when he could've easily disposed of him in more discrete ways.

a crack of gunshot stopped everyone in their tracks, even more so for 29 year old furniture designer Richard Patterson as he was about to bite into his first meal of the day. it wasn't breakfast he was having, as many people dont have breakfasts at 3pm on a hazy tuesday afternoon. Richard just completed a huge deal the day before, which meant he could finally afford to treat himself to something more substantial than instant ramen. but the high powered 5.56mm round from the business end of a very wet and very black colt commando blew the back of his skull wide open, rendering what used to be contained inside to a very fine red mist.

a pair of legs clad in black chinos, ending in scruffed combat boots, stepped through the shattered glass caused by the first shot that so quickly ended the designer's life. another pair shod in the same style followed a beat after. they took up positions right in the middle of the fast food restaurant, taking quick unhurried steps. calm calculated paces that spoke of premediation. the Two who stepped in surveyed the shell-shocked afternoon patrons of Burger King, reading in their eyes the kind of fear that they've only read about in newspapers and watched on the evening news, as they sat, safe and sound and warm in their living rooms. later, eyewitness accounts would peg these two as males in their early twenties, clad in starched white business shirts and maroon ties, with pants. looking almost like middle managers who're supposed to be attending another boring meeting, the only mismatched accessories being the rifles they had tucked very securely in hollows of the shoulders. heads that were topped with medium length black hair and eyes very safely hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. the second person who stepped through the shattered window swung to his left, and trained the front and rear sight posts of his rifle to the general cluster of children who were just previously speaking very loudly and annoying their neighbours, but now on the verge of bursting into tears, and squeezed the trigger.

hot brass shells tinkled upon the waxed floor of the Burger King, floors which were, ironically, designed to be easy to clean. and now that very same feature would facilitate the cleaning up of the blood that was spilled in this massacre. the first assasin let loose another volley of shots straight ahead, one round entering the chest of a teenager who was about to dash out of his table, and two more going astray, richocheting off the steel beams of the swivel chairs and finally finding a resting place in the meaty thigh of a plump woman sitting the next table over. three rounds were parked, courtesty of assasin two, in the belly of the group of children's mother, the recoil of the rifle bringing the barrel up towards her face, where another three rounds made her identifiable only through her dental records. a group of girls were screaming by now, and many shouts of surprise, shock and absolute horror engulfed the scene.

many people tripped over each other, in the mad dash for safety. nobody was helping another, as their primitive impulse of self-perservation took over. the two assasins assayed their quarry without as much as a sign of emotion, even though their pulses were racing. but only because of the thrill that such an act is presenting to them. each of them reloaded another magazine, but never both at the same time.

they were firing in full auto mode now. the deafening roar of death was greeted by each individual on the receiving end with a slow sick realisation that time really does slow down as u approach your end. it is like being strapped front and centre in a horror movie that closing your eyes wouldn't help as u meet with the inevitable.

heads were blown apart like over-ripened fruits, arteries were severed and the living dead were bleeding to death. the color of the assassins' maroon ties matched with the tributeries of blood on the floor, often the blood would pool in some part of the floor that wasnt as well levelled as the rest. when they were sure that most of the diners at the fast food restaurant were dead, dying or comatose - so shocked that they would need years of post-traumatic-stress therapy, did the second assasin take a step back, dropped his weapon and closed his eyes.

afterwhich the first, and older, assasin turned on his heels in the blood, and shot his associate in the face.