Killer name

“Who are you?”

He wants to know who I am, which seems irrelevant at the moment. In about 3 seconds he’s not going to be here, there won’t be anything left to name.

All he needs to know is that I am the cold leather clad hand holding onto the back of his collar. All he needs to know is that I am the end of all things for him: I am the hand letting go, I am the wet slap of his body when it hits the concrete 22 storey’s down. I am the man facing the other way, weaving through the crowd of shocked onlookers, I am business as usual.

I am usually receptive to last requests but for some reason, in this moment, this request is impossible.

“Why do you need to know my name?” I said, joining him down on his knees, putting an arm on his shoulder like we’re old friends, waving my gun at the metropolitan skyline. “I brought you up here so you could see the sights one last time. The time for conversation is over.”

Why can’t I answer him? It should’ve been over by now, Question, Answer, Drop, Splat.

“My name is Frank Burgher” He says.

“I know your name, Frank”

“I was born with a losers name” Says Frank Burgher “Which is why I’m about to be dropped into the alleyway just off of fourth. My parents, god bless their souls, chose wrong for me, some chaotic event took place when those sounds became my name. Call it astrology, numerology, whatever: Whatever, run my numbers and you get sixes is what I’m saying.”

“I’m going to kill you now, Frank Burgher” I said, “I was going to drop you into fourth but if it makes you feel more in control of your destiny I can shoot you in the face and tell my employers there was a complication.”

“No” Says Frank Burgher, “Into fourth, I can feel it, it feels all too right, I can already see my chalk outline down there, right by the dumpster, you see?”

I’m amazed how sure Frank Burgher can be so sure of something like this, and here I was, still buying time because I can’t remember my goddamn name. I think it had an ‘S’ in it, or something, damn it. Usually they were the ones who were buying time.

“You still haven’t told me your name?” Says Frank Burgher and god damn it he doesn’t have to remind me.

I stand up and reverse, keeping the gun trained on his head, patting myself down for my wallet.

“Having a little trouble there champ?” Said Frank Burgher to the wind. “It wasn’t meant to be a stumper, I just wanted to know your name in case we meet again somewhere down the track.”

“Is there any fairytale bullshit you don’t believe in, Frank?” I said, trying to funnel the wallet out of my left pocket with my right hand while still keeping the gun trained on him, but where was he gonna go, really?

“I should’ve changed my name, you know what the ancient Babylonians believed about name changes?”

“No” I said, finally fishing the wallet out, “But I’m sure you’re going to tell me”

“They believed that changing your name can avert an evil heavenly decree, reconnect you to your true soul, your true path.”

I look at the photo of myself and the phantom words embossed alongside it.

“Argyle Hunter?” I say, and Frank Burgher doesn’t notice that I couldn’t help but phrase it as a question.

“Argyle Hunter!” Exclaims Frank Burgher with verve “Now that is a name. I should have been called Argyle Hunter, things would’ve turned out so much better than this.”

“You can have it” I said, putting the wallet back into my pocket “It’s yours”

“You can’t change my name Argyle Hunter, you’re not a priest.”

“Well tonight I am as close to whatever god you believe in as you’re gonna get” I said, the ghost syllables of my name rolling around in my head “Tonight I am a priest, tonight I am god damn Santa Claus”

I took my gun and drew a cross in the air across my body like they used to make us.

“Frank Burgher” I said, taking a step closer to the kneeling man at the concrete lip of the Northwest Homemaker Centre. “I, tonight, give you the name of Argyle Hunter”

And that was the last of this genie’s wishes, I punted the newly Argyle Hunter off of the rooftop like half time was finally over. I peeked over to watch the limp bodied man sail into the alleyway.

Perhaps that was the night that not every one of Frank Burgher’s numbers came up six, somehow a four or a five or a king snuck its way into the deck. While for a moment Frank Burgher was heading to the concrete target he had assigned himself, the man, whatever his name was now, began to arc towards the open dumpster.

Thunk.

Not the photo finish I had hoped for, but 22 storey’s was death, didn’t matter where he landed. That’s what I told myself, but that didn’t stop the man slowly emerging from the food scraps and climbing his way out of the bin like we were in a cartoon universe.

The smile ex-Frank Burgher shot me told me that he could hardly believe it himself. Emerging out of the bin he stumbled down the alleyway, energized by the pocket aces that had come out of nowhere. He turned the corner, stealing off into the city streets, with my name.