Hitmans end.

He adrimed the irony that he was in.
Siting against the wall, with a bullet in his stomach.
The blood on the floor. Every ones got to go some time.
But, no matter how much he told him self that,
It wouldn't sink in. He wasn't ready.
He hadn't lived enough. He had drank enough.
He hadn't fucked enough, He wasn't ready.
But, when you live in the career,
anything can happen.
He was a hit man. And an extent one at that.
Thought he was the best in the world.
But the bullet wound seemd to argue otherwise.
He thought of everytime he put some one on this side of a bullet.
Every time he took the life of another.
Every time he let some one die.
And this time, he hadn't even seen who shot him.
It was worse then the psyical pain in his body.
The liquid pain flowed in his vainds like borken glass.
It was worse then the emotional pain of lost.
The deep pain the pulled him down.
It was worse then the mental pain that his job put him thought
The horrble pain that he thought he put him self above.
And it was almost as bad as the spratle pain.
The unserntly of what would happen after the last drop of life driped out,
Like the blood that staned his coat. That driped on the concreat.
This was his fate. This was his end.
He saw it coming. Life fading.
He felt it coming. The grip of realirty had lossening it grasp
He could taste it coming. The blood in his mouth.
He knew it was on his way. And with all of this. He wasn't ready.
He looked out the open window that he mounted his rife.
His final target gave his speech
Unaware of the blessing that was given to him.
Unaware that just a few minutes early, he was in the cross hair.
With grate pain, he rose. The worste psyical pain you could ever feel.
He looked out that window. He saw the speech maker.
He clenched his mounted rifle. And pointed at the target.
His finger started to push the trigger, but he paused.
He didn't see the point. He could finish his last mistion.
Die with out failing a single misttion.
But, would he be off anybetter?
Would he feel any better?
Maybe. But, was he ready to put some one where he was?
no.
He fealt regrate. For all the deeds he did.
For all the pain he caouse.
For all the life he stole.
For everything.
He looked thought the scope one last time, and let it go.
He feel to the floor.
He bleed out his wound.
He tried to stay here.
He tried to use his life, every last drop.
But he let it go.
And left. Left with so much pain.
Left with so much regreat.
Left with know who killed him, or why.
Left with out succeeding.
The only thing he could take pride in was the fact that he didn't kill the man.
He didn't kill the futer presadent. Maybe that would make life a better place.
Maybe.

ALTURNATE ENDINGS:
**
Smoke rose of the snipers sleineted rifle. This was his kill.
He planed it, he climd the rusty fire escape to get here.
He reloaded the rife, and pointed at the speech maker.
A singel shot to the head splated gore in to the crode.
**
12 years form now, the preasdent who go so close t dying gave another speech:
“The US campaign in to South American is doing well, Military spending is up 50%, thanks to cutting several costs, thanks to some reblanceing, I have agusted the US government to a new sleeker designing, giving the executive power over the other branches. Cameras are now in every house, improving safety for everyone.”