Chicago Wildlife - 12. Enter MONSIEUR MIME

Act 10: Enter MONSIEUR MIME

It was a rather brisk autumn afternoon, good for Pierre O’Myut. He could just fall in love with the season. He wouldn’t have to suffer underneath his black and white striped, long sleeved shirt. Summer could be miserable for him at times. True, he could always wear a short-sleeved version of his uniform, but then where would he hide the spare bullets?

The sounds of cars would be all around him, standing there in front of the twenty-story tall building. So, too, would the sound of the radio coming from the car of a nearly deaf driver reach him. The ever-present purring of a jackhammer tearing through concrete would accompany them. And perhaps even the spirited chitter chatter coming from the pedestrians around him would perk up his ears, as who could resist the siren’s wail of juicy gossip?

These would reach him, if he hadn’t used his powers, significantly dampening the sound waves all around him. For Pierre, what was happening right next to him might as well be occurring a block away. He never was one for loud noises.

Someone tapped his shoulder from behind, and in that moment, Pierre thought he was about to meet his maker. His concentration disrupted, his powers stopped and all the noise came rushing in. He spun around and saw a young woman standing there. She inquired as to the current time. What sort of Chicagoan just approaches someone from behind like that? She quickly apologized, expressing that she didn’t see his white face paint from behind. He waved off her concerns and quickly flashed some digits on his hand corresponding to the time. She thanked him and wandered off.

Pierre entered the building and walked to the elevator, tipping an invisible fedora towards the receptionist along the way. She greeted him warmly and thankfully seemed to assume that, due to the white face paint on his face, she was not getting a verbal response. When the elevator opened, Pierre was grateful to find it empty. No unnecessary chatter. He got inside and hit the seventeenth-floor button. His prior scouting revealed that that particular floor was currently not in use. The elevator mechanically reiterated back to him his choice, though thanks to his powers, the secretary heard the voice louder than Pierre did.

With a muted sound clip, courtesy of the elevator, Pierre arrived at his destination. He strolled in, making sure he was alone. Seeing that he was, he moved to his designated spot and got to work. He set down his transparent case that he had been holding the whole time, snapped it open, and retrieved his see-through sniper rifle. Pierre briefly recalled his wilder days, when he brazenly thought about making the gun look more like pure glass, complete with visible distortion, or painting the tip of it orange. Just something to make it slightly fairer to his targets. Those ideas had nearly gotten him killed, though, and with developments that were happening in his personal life at the time, Pierre couldn’t afford to be killed.

Pierre assembled his rifle and got into a comfortable position. The exchange was scheduled to occur at precisely 4:00 P.M. Like any professional, Pierre arrived at noon. If any last-minute changes were to happen, if the drop-off were to occur earlier than stated, he’d be the first to know. With so much free time on his hands, Pierre couldn’t help but evaluate his earlier performance today.

#

Call him old fashioned, but Pierre O’Myut always had a problem with killing women. And children? Forget it. No child was enough of a threat to someone that they should be killed for it. Nevertheless, Pierre was a professional, and sometimes he needed to take women-centric jobs in order to maintain secure income. This was one of those times. What this woman did, he didn’t know. That wasn’t part of his job, and he suspected that knowing anything about his marks beyond what was necessary would negatively affect his performance. A guilt-ridden assassin was a dead assassin.

It was probably to distract from the unsavory nature of the job that Pierre opted to get creative. Normally he would find a high vantage point and shoot below. This time, however, he and his mark would be eye to eye. A couple thousand feet apart, but eye to eye. She would be in an important meeting on the nineteenth floor of one building, and he would be on the nineteenth floor of a different building. She would be wearing some hideous teal office jacket. He knew because he tailed her as she left her apartment that day. Combined with her frizzy hair, she looked a lot like Elaine from Seinfeld. Perhaps that’s why she was marked for death? Or maybe she sicced a dingo on the client’s baby? Pierre always liked to amuse himself by coming up with outrageous stories for why such and such person had a hit on them. It helped make him feel like a hero and plus, it helped pass the time.

Pierre had set himself up in the room, gun poised, scope pressed up against his eye, locked onto a single space in the building several blocks away. The meeting was taking place now. He was thankful that men’s professional fashion never evolved to such an outlandish degree as women’s. If someone wearing black crossed his field of view, then he knew it wasn’t her. And if, by some chance, there were another woman in the meeting with the mark, she would never wear the same color as the mark. Thank God for women on women sexism! The mark did pass into his field of vision a couple of times, but there was always another person either directly in front of or behind her. Pierre wasn’t into killing for free, nor did he want to earn a reputation as a sloppy hitman. One bullet, one body.

What would he have for dinner? It had been ages since he had a nice, roast turkey. Perhaps some of that creamy mashed potatoes he loved so much? Butter or gravy? Both weren’t good for his heart, but as the saying goes, you only live once. He’d kill for some sweet rolls right about now. Butter on that, for sure. Wash it all down with what’s left of the cranberry juice. Hmm…perhaps he was just in the mood for Thanksgiving?

What shows were on tonight? If any of his regulars were preempted by sports…well, he supposed he would have to murder someone…in a strongly worded email. Just a little work-related humor there. Was Survivor: Island of the Idols on tonight or tomorrow? Perhaps he’ll end up watching Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire?

A flash of teal. No black. And then it’s gone. Pierre cursed at himself. The golden opportunity had presented itself, and he had been too slow to react to it. That moment might never come again, and he’d have to come up with a new plan altogether, one that doesn’t involve everything he bothered to learn about his mark, the two locations, and anything else relevant to this exact moment. Indeed, a slow assassin was a dead—

A flash of teal. No black. One bullet. One body.

#

Pierre was thankful that his little mishap earlier didn’t affect the current job. He’d hate to have to lie in wait for another hour or so, waiting for another opportunity to take the shot, and thus run behind schedule, maybe even having to cancel this job altogether. With no guarantee that he’d be given a second chance with the woman, he could’ve potentially been out of two paychecks today. That money was going towards a good cause, and he certainly wasn’t going to be making equivalent bank doing street pantomiming.

Ah, his paranoia had been warranted. Shady men were beginning to converge at the rendezvous point. His mark was a man with slick, black hair, a mole on the right side of his cheek, three piercings along the rim of his right ear, and a scar along the back of his right hand. Pierre imagined that this man would look…all right. He inwardly chuckled to himself. He would have to tell that one later. But back to the matter at hand. The right man would be the one initiating the transaction, so Pierre would look out for a man giving another man something. What was it this time? Money? Drugs? He recalled a time where the ever-present, steel briefcase contained a human heart.

It became immediately apparent that this was going to be more difficult than it first appeared. All of the men were wearing the same suit, but that was to be expected. The problem lied in the fact that, so far, all the men were wearing hats, sporting protective masks, and had black gloves on. Were they cautiously prepared, or had Pierre’s planned visit been leaked? No matter. Their hats didn’t cover their ears, and some foolish men still flaunted their shiny earrings, hoping to look impressive and powerful in front of the others.

An unidentifiable man stepped forward, holding a briefcase. No piercings. No bullet. He spoke, the other man replied, there was a nodding of heads, and the briefcase was opened between them. Nothing inside. A decoy exchange, meant to expose premature assassins with an itchy trigger finger. These men had experience. Another decoy exchange was made. Pierre was content, though. They could do decoy exchanges all day. He was patient.

A man with a briefcase. No pierc…three holes in the upper ear. A split second to make a decision. How likely was it that another man in this group would have three holes in their right ear? Based on all the piercings he’d seen so far, very. Pierre wished his employer had supplied him with more useful information, such as the mark’s exact height and weight, or their eye color. Heck, Pierre was even trained in identifying his marks based on their dick size!

Silently cursing himself, Pierre relented. Three tiny holes weren’t enough to potentially scare away the real mark. Pierre did not, however, move a muscle, nor did he alter his gaze from the scene. The man held up the briefcase, moving his hand to unsnap the latches. Just then, his eyes darted at Pierre’s direction, before quickly snapping back to his buyer. Gotcha.

Pierre pulled the trigger. None of the other men had looked around their surroundings. This one knew what kind of danger he was in. He knew where to look. Key word: knew. What part of his brain was in charge of such decisions was now kissing the white plaster wall on his left. Even seventeen stories up, screaming would’ve reached Pierre’s ears, if he’d allow for it. However, he needed his silencing power to extend to its maximum, just barely covering the rifle, in order to mask his presence, so he was unable to hear a thing until he was in the process of packing up.

After everything was packed up, Pierre exited the room, went down the elevator, and through the lobby, confident in his performance. The receptionist bade him a good day. He smiled back at her, his eyes returning the sentiment. When Pierre exited the building, jobs done for the day, it was late afternoon. By the time he returned home, it would be dinnertime. He walked to a seemingly empty space in the parking lot, unlocked his invisible sedan, got in and drove off.

Traffic was murder, as was rush hour tradition. Pierre dreaded the upcoming paperwork he’d have to complete for his jobs. Finally, he drove into his subdivision, and pulled up to his invisible, two-story house. Pierre decided to leave his car out in the driveway in hopes that the expected rainfall for the night would count as washing his car, feeling a bit cheap for doing so. He walked through the front door, closing it behind him, thus making him invisible to the naked eye. There was, after all, a difference between soft invisibility, where the objects didn’t hide the visible behind them, and hard invisibility, in which they did.

Pierre’s two invisible children rushed into the hallway as he set his case down. He bent down and reached out his arms to embrace his little bundles of joy. Jessica and August rushed into his arms as if they were playing Red Rover, and he ensnared them both, making a goofy face as the 6- and 8-year-old giggled endlessly. Joey, the young and transparent wombat, paced from his bed in the laundry room to the kitchen. Pierre’s darling wife, Francesca, stood at the end of the hallway, mixing something no doubt delicious in a bowl in her hands.

Jessica and August disentangled themselves from Pierre’s arms and frantically signed to him, asking about his day. They were still so young. They had not yet mastered how to speak with gestures and facial impressions, so they spoke with words instead. It was a crutch, sure, but completely normal for their age. Pierre signed back to them, but with a mix of proper mime gestures and facial contortions thrown in as well. He explained how Daddy had lots of work today, all sorts of grown up stuff, all of which was very exciting. The pair of children clapped their hands and hung on to his every word, until finally Francesca had to intervene to get them to set the table for dinner. Pierre took this time to take his case upstairs and store it in his and Francesca’s bedroom closet. He knew Francesca would never open it out of curiosity. Light-sensitive documents inside and all that, as far as she knew.

It turned out that Pierre must’ve had latent psychic abilities, as Francesca was, in fact, cooking turkey that night, alongside mashed potatoes. The sweet rolls were a no go, and it appeared that August drank the last of the cranberry juice earlier that day, so maybe Pierre wasn’t going to win Psychic of the Year. The O’Myut’s had a lovely dinner, and afterwards, they retired to the family room to watch some wholesome television. The mute button was on, of course, and the family instead read the closed captioning. They laughed and cheered, the same as any other normal family. Soon enough, it was time for the children to go to bed. Francesca ushered them upstairs. Pierre switched stations to something more adult centered.

Francesca was soon downstairs again. Pierre had switched to Game of Thrones. The two were hopelessly addicted and were thrilled at what the final season would bring. Francesca never was a fan of scary things, so whenever the White Walkers made an appearance, she would lean into Pierre and squeeze his arm.

Pierre remembered back when he first met Francesca. He was doing his day job, miming, on the streets of Paris (he always liked to add Illinois to that). Tourists were gathered around him, taking pictures, politely clapping, and throwing coins into a visible hat on the ground. Life was adequate. Pierre was doing what he loved in a city he adored. But then she entered his line of sight. It seemed like nobody else even noticed her, as if she was an invisible beauty. Pierre, for one, was certainly not going to pass up an opportunity such as this and let this angel become smitten with some other man. He set down the invisible trumpet the audience had just seen him playing and walked up to her, waving a hand in hello. Her long, blond hair bounced as she turned to face him, her blue eyes sparkling, and her ruby red lips already stretched into a smile before she even set her eyes upon him. Pierre’s blush could be seen even through his white face paint. He gestured what an exquisite young lady such as herself was doing wandering around these streets, whose beauty could not compare to her. In hindsight, he was probably laying it on a little too thick, but she seemed to appreciate the compliment at the time. To the tourists, the mime was simply performing another skit, and they clapped at appropriate times in appreciation for his acting.

The next day, Pierre and Francesca were officially dating.

It was starting to get late. Francesca would need to get up early to wake the children and get them ready for school. She kissed Pierre goodnight and headed upstairs to bed. Pierre then switched to the news station. He couldn’t be ignorant of the world around him, after all.

If it was possible for him to yelp or turn any whiter than he already was, he would have. The newswoman kept a stoic face as she droned on about potential new information about the mysterious assassin, who has never left a trace of themselves behind. Apparently, until now. There, on the screen, for all the world to see, was Pierre, walking into the lobby, greeting the receptionist, followed by footage of him leaving. How had they figured it out? He had been so careful.

The newswoman continued to inform Chicago that the receptionist had found the mime suspicious. When she was told about the murder that had taken place near her workplace, she figured that the only non-regular to the building had to be responsible. She saw what floor the elevator had stopped at, looked at the security footage, and saw him setting up his transparent tools and taking the shot.

So he’d been made. Years of professional conduct, and one tip of the hat undid all of that. What of his family? Would they have to move? There were hardly any of their kind living in the Windy City, much less the quiet, suburban neighborhood the O’Myut’s currently lived in. Francesca couldn’t find out about his real job! She wouldn’t understand. He did all of this for her, for their children. It was this job, not miming nor the office gig the O’Myut’s think he had, that helped feed their college fund.

Pierre switched off the television. Francesca would watch the news eventually. Lady Luck was the only reason why she hadn’t tonight. Pierre had to do something to keep them all safe. Fortunately, he was a quick thinker. He had to be in his line of work. He would kidnap someone, kill them, paint them up as a mime, and leave them for the police to find. The close-minded idiots would quickly assume that this man and the one that was just busted on television were one and the same. After all, how many mimes could there possibly be in Chicago? They’d consider the matter case closed and have the news outlets report on it. Then Pierre wouldn’t have to sweat every time Francesca went near the television.

Pierre crept upstairs, prepared to tell his lovely wife that he had been called in to cover a late-night shift, and to get his transparent case out of the closet. It was time to go to work.