Kurt Hummel was leaning against the balcony fence in his Versace suit, staring through the scope down at his latest target. His brown hair was blown off his face from the light breeze on the 56th floor of the hotel. There was no one else on the top balcony, but on the floor below a party was in full swing. Politicians and their partners, their interns, their assistants, and their friends were socializing, munching on houres d’ouveres, and drinking a wide range of expensive and exotic alcohols, only the finest for some of the most important people in America.

Kurt put the scope back in his inner pocket, and gave one last look at his target before pushing off of the balcony, calmly waking down the stairs and into the party. His target was a popular man, a born charismatic speaker with a thirst for glory, money, and killing young boys after brutally raping them. One of last victims had been the nephew of a man equally as powerful as him, and of course went to Kurt’s H.M to seek revenge. And that is how he had ended up attending one of the most important political parties of the year, with a one track mind; terminate the target, stage 1, no witnesses.

As he began to move through the crowd, the women giggled politely with champagne-clad hands, and the men laughed heartily through Cuban cigars, Kurt realized that he would need to be careful. This hotel was infamous for its priority customers who demanded the best security, meaning more cameras than the average pawnshop. Usually it was easy to take out a target. Most of the time it was a run-of-the-mill bang-bang and then it was over (a stage 4), but no, this time was different. The H.M’s called for a stage 1, and seeing how the man had a family history of early-age heart attacks, there was no point wasting bullets. A stage 1 meant that the target was to die in a medical-related incident. Stage 2 means a poisoning; stage 3 is an “accident” (automobile, train wreck, slippery floors, etc.); stage 4 calls for a shooting, and stage 5 is for the assassin to get creative. Today Kurt was suppose to inconspicuously inject a heart-attack inducing serum into the target, then flee the scene of the crime as soon as possible.

“Excuse me.” He said, walking past the man while maintaining eye contact, giving him a quick wink and delivering the perfect, smoldering “come-hither” smile. He heard the politician excuse himself from his wife and begin to follow him. ‘This is really too easy,’ Kurt thought to himself, ‘like a Sheppard leading a sheep to it’s death.” They walked through the crowd, the target trailing a few feet behind him as they entered the inside of the second-last floor of the hotel. The target continued to follow him as he steeped into the dull, empty bathroom.

“Excuse me, but I don’t think I know your name. Would you be kind enough to tell me?” Oh yes, of course the target was a natural playboy; male and female alike have fallen to his southern smile and impeccable charm.

“The name is Henrie, Mr. Packson. We have not had the pleasure of meeting yet, but I hope we shall quickly become very acquainted with each other.” Laying on his thickest, sexiest French accent was the correct thing to do, as the target’s eyes began to fill with a dark and terrible lust. Kurt pushed forward, shoving himself at the man and pulling their lips together. The kiss was sensual and passionate; it was the perfect combination of Kurt’s soft porcelain lips and the older man’s ruggedly handsome mouth. As the kiss got heavier and heavier, he began to notice the affect he was having on the target. Kurt stuck his hand into his pocket, pulling out the minute needle filled with the serum, and held the man’s neck with a pretense of grabbing the small fibers of hair before sticking the needle in the pale flesh. Immediately the target wretched himself away from Kurt, surprise flooding his face before his legs suddenly gave up, sending him plummeting to the ground.

“W-What have you d-done to me?” The target asked shakily, an unnatural purple tint overtaking his face.

“I’ve just administered a dose of catalactlus angriphorus into your body. It’s a drug that takes about 35 seconds before sending you into a heart attack. Don’t worry, it won’t take too long.” The words somehow comforted the man, who in return laid on his back and stared into Kurt’s eyes.

“Can I at least know why you’re killing me?” And even on the verge of death, the target displayed his usual calm appearance.

“You have raped and killed 13 young boys. Don’t you know that’s an unlucky number?”

“Bah,” The man spit, his eyes beginning to glow in anger, “all of them deserved it, they wanted it. I feel no regret for those whores.” The assassin easily noticed how it was harder for the man to talk, and harder for him to concentrate. He walked and rested his knee on the man’s throat.

“I’m an atheist,” Kurt said in a tired voice as he slowly increased the pressure on the target’s throat, watching him struggle to breathe and begin to fade away. “But I hope you burn in Hell for your sins.” The man’s eyes rolled back into his head, and Kurt checked for a heartbeat.

“Amen.”