legacyoracle:

cryumbracat:

convito:

writing-prompt-s:

You’ve always been a clumsy person. One day, you wake up tied to a chair, and in front of you is the best Hitman in the world, who has been trying to kill you for years.

“Bill?” you say, as your eyes finally adjust.

Your coworker of nearly a decade stands before you, garrote in hand.

“Son of a-” Bill sputtered out, clearly exasperated, “I’ve been trying to kill you for 8 goddamn years! Who the hell else would it be?”

“You’ve been… trying to kill me?” Your mind races as you think back on all your previous encounters, “I just figured you really liked hugs and really hated cans.”

“I was aiming for you, you stupid little grubworm,” his teeth grind together so tightly, you half expect them to disintegrate, “I kept hitting the cans because you kept tripping over what I can only assume is the air itself! Why do you hang around piles of cans so much anyway?!”

“It reminds me of home,” you reply.

“SHUT UP!” Bill is at the end of his rope, or at least the end of his knife, which is slowly being thrust in your direction, “That doesn’t even make sense, but I don’t care. I’m here to finish the job and finally move on with my life. No more happy little accidents!”

He begins to approach, knife in hand.

“Don’t I get any last words?” you ask, hoping he’s as big a movie buff as you.

“You’ve had 8 years of last words, and they’ve all been SHIT,” Bill hastens his approach, “So just SHUT UP and let me murder you in peace.”

“I don’t know what I did to provoke you,” you offer, desperately trying to stall for time, “but whatever it is, I’m so… sor… sooooaaaahCHOO!”

The dust in this big empty room must have aggravated your allergies, resulting in a reality-shaking sneeze, sending your glasses flying off and your head straight into Bill’s crotch.

Bill doubles over, cursing your family name, your mother’s grave, and your stupid face. He crawls away, presumably to regain his composure, only to rise up and run straight at you with a roar of concentrated rage.

Or, at least, he would have, if he hadn’t stepped on your glasses (”Ah, there they are,” you note to yourself), causing him to lose his footing and fall…

…directly onto his knife.

Now you’re in an empty room with a dead man. Not your ideal Wednesday night, but at least it’s quiet.

“You’ve had 8 years of last words, and they’ve all been SHIT.”

best quote ever 10/10

Love it