My Name is Legion

All characters are over eighteen. And fictional. As is the author.

Alas, I missed the Crime and Fiction deadline (for reasons of obligations). Quel dommage! I'll turn down more work next year.

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My Name Is Legion. I am a villain with a thousand faces, all but one being a legend. My original name and character have been buried under alluvial layers of falsity. I have passports from over 100 countries, sometimes two or three from each. The fees to my solicitors have exceeded ten million Swiss francs (or, as we assassins express it, 10 million in real money), but these costs are cheap in comparison to the benefits obtained. I am a citizen of thirty countries.

I may have been born in 1945. Or 1955. Or 1965. Or 1975. All these dates appear in my passports, alongside my myriads of names. Then again, I may be like the Dread Pirate Roberts - that is, I may be Anonymous Assassin 3.0, or 4.0 or even 6.9.

I possess a unique set of skills and provide a very exclusive set of services to authors of adventure, crime and spy fiction. For hefty fees, I either assassinate their protagonists or convince said protagonists that an anonymous life in some godforsaken backwater with their life and health intact is far preferable to years of looking over their shoulders followed by an inevitable violent death.

If you think I've missed any assassins, spies or detectives in my narrative, you're probably thinking of some of my legends. Maigret, Barney Miller, Jason Bourne, Clouseau, Jack Frost, Father Brown, Mike Hammer, and Ziva David, to name but a few. Take your pick. Chacun a son gout.

Homicide is cheaper for a reason. Scaring these sociopaths into fading into the background involves far more risk and effort, but some authors will be squeamish. Even though they created the character out of whole cloth, they don't see that this gives them the right to murder their creations, any more than they could murder any of their insipid brats. These days, I usually insist on thirty million Swiss francs for fading into the woodwork jobs, plus an annuity of three hundred thousand Swiss francs per year to the would-be victim. This is not generosity - it makes my job easier if the victim rides quietly into the sunset. Murder is on a sliding-scale fee. For example, three million francs for idiotic narcissists such as James Bond and twenty million francs for intelligent people such as Monk or Max Arnold.

I would have loved to have the contract on Sherlock Holmes. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was a fool for entrusting his extermination to that amateur Moriarty and his minions. To be an effective assassin, that must be your only business and you must work alone. You can't be running a far-reaching criminal enterprise with hundreds of associates. On top of that, even if you know you are far superior at hand-to-hand combat (as am I), you must stay away from it. Too iffy, too many improbable ways to trip up. Maybe a quick chop on the neck in a dark alleyway, but for God's sake, no wrestling beside a waterfall, no matter how beautiful the scenery is.

By the time I came along, Holmes had risen from the dead like Dracula more times than I have had women, with authors from Conan Doyle's son to Nicholas Meyer to Laurie King to Anthony Horowitz all doing a number on him. There could not be enough silver bullets or wooden stakes to finally kill him off until all the living authors and the estates of the dead ones agree that he needs to be killed.

Alas, Josephine Tey, Ngaio Marsh, and Dorothy Sayers died before I came on the scene. I would love to have murdered Alan Grant and Rory Alleyn, those upper-class pretty boys. Lord Peter I would have offed for free. Pompous, smug prick!

Agatha Christie hired a merciless hit man to do in Poirot. The vile creep murdered God knows how many innocent people in order to get to Poirot, who murdered the hit man and sacrificed himself for the good of humanity. Who could be a better hit man to kill Poirot than Poirot?

Adam Dalgleish tried to turn the tables on P. D. James. She had put him through so much misery over the last sixty years that, right up to her death, he dearly wished her to die a painful and violent death. I explained that I only murdered fictional characters for living authors, not the other way round. He begged me to reconsider and make an exception in his case. He said I must consider all the collateral damage she was doing to the people he loved. However, as a specialist I cannot do that. Would I murder Anthony Horowitz for all the pain he has caused Foyle? Would I murder Richard Osman because Elizabeth hated him for giving her Stephen and then taking him away? Where would all of this end? No, I will stick with murdering fictional characters.

One of my first regular customers was Frederick Forsyth. At my instigation, he used disposable protagonists with built-in terminal conditions. Jamie Shannon smoked three packs of cigs a day and had terminal lung cancer even before leading the coup. I merely had to assume the identity of Carlos the Jackal and approach him, telling him he could have a few years of pain and an excruciating death or I would add half a million Swiss francs to the bundle he was splitting with his buddies who survived the raid. I was young and idealistic and charged only a million francs which I split with Jamie. Not sure if he bought my identity, but he did walk out into the bush and blow his brains out and his buddies each increased their stash by about fifty thousand francs.

Charles Calthrop was earlier. He was already threatening Forsyth with sequels. I only charged he was only charged four hundred thousand francs. The network of embittered French Algerian Front old farts leaked like a sieve, so I knew in two days where and when The Jackal would strike. All I needed to do was tip the Paris deputy commissioner in charge of the case as to the location of the apartment where he would commit the crime and, voila, four days later my work is done for me. The deputy commissioner himself was ready to retire and mind his garden and his pigeons, so there was no need to kill him. He also was too honest to take any money. I hate it when that happens, but it does save me money.

The real trick was seducing his wife so I could be sure he got the necessary message. The deputy commissioner may have been nearly sixty, but he was French, after all. Fortunately, la madame had a weakness for anal and for film tough guys. I convinced her that I was Jean-Paul Belmondo's younger brother and that I had done stunt work for him in his last three pictures. I was also fortunate that, while the deputy commissioner was proficient in, shall we say, French culture, he was not a big proponent of Greek culture and she could only coax him into re-stocking her storm cellar about once a year.

I already knew about her little kink (if one could call it that) because I had paid twenty French francs to her milkman, who delivered crème to her back door on a regular basis. I whispered softly in her ear how I would like to eat her, and how I would like to fill her pussy, but above all how I would love to ravage her derriere. She was dripping before she could finish her pastis.

She was quite an attractive MILF. One hundred sixty six centimeters, fifty-six kilos, very few wrinkles (Parisians don't use all those creams for nothing!), with nice streaks of silver in her auburn hair. All of her auburn hair. The lower bit was nicely trimmed as only a Paris beautician could. While I would have preferred dining in her pantry, I knew that she was really hungry to have my twenty centimeters in her back passage. I could not blame her: all those nerve endings can tingle up a storm, and along with karate, taekwondo, kung fu, jiu jitsu, tai chi, and a hundred other martial arts I have learned, I am a black belt in anal, proficient in all twenty-eight positions.

I had led the deputy commissioner on a merry chase because it was necessary to keep him out of the house. I encountered her in a little bistro near her home. She had stopped for a pastis and I ordered a marc. I sat at the next table and gave her my most seductive smile and greeted her with a soft "Bon Soir, Madame." I lit up a Gaulois Disque Bleu in my best Belmondo fashion. I tipped the pack so one stood out and offered it to her. She brought her pastis to my table and we struck up a conversation. I bought her another pastis and put a hand on her knee. In three minutes she had her hand on my leg, and in five she had worked it up my pant leg to my groin and she gave a pleased little "Ooh, lah, lah!"

My table was next to the pay phone. I excused myself, inserted a token, called the talking clock, then said the address and number of the apartment where Calthrop would be laying in wait to assassinate De Gaulle. I asked her for a slip of paper and wrote it down and repeated it as I was writing, and added "no one must know", several times, just in case she hadn't heard me.

When we got to their home ten minutes later, I excused myself to go to the W. C. and laid the paper on the bedside table. I only took two minutes in the loo. I didn't need to pee, but I flushed the commode to complete the ruse.

When I got back, she was stripped and ready to go. I made her wait a bit. I kissed her and nibbled my way down to her chatte. I hated to leave it - it was so juicy, like a perfectly seared chateaubriand, with the butter oozing out of it - but I give my customers what they want.

I used my hatha yoga mantra to avoid coming too soon. She was beginning to writhe and shout. In another five minutes, she was shouting "S'il vous plait, Monsieur, cum! Cum! Je suis en train de craquer!" I ceased repeating the mantra and finished.

She said, "Merci beaucoup, Monsieur!" and I replied "De rien!" and laid down next to her. I said, "Pardon, Ma Cher! Je suis tres fatigue!" and I faked sleep. This alarmed her: she needed to prepare le diner and she certainly did not need to explain to the deputy commissioner why there was a nude man in her bed. She shook me for a few minutes, and I sleepily muttered the address and the apartment number and no one must know, pain of death, ya da, ya da, ya da, several times. I could see she needed to get rid of me, so I kissed her and said "A bientôt, Ma Cher! Le meme bistro la semaine prochaine?" I got dressed and left.

She of course told her husband that, while she was having coffee in the bistro, she had overheard a mysterious, dangerous looking stranger speaking the address and apartment number and the statement that no one must know under pain of death and that she suspected it may be something criminal. He was Johnny on the spot. It was a shame about the young gendarme dying, but if he had followed his boss's directions instead of trying to be some sort of action hero, he would still have been alive today and Calthrop would be just as dead, with much less effort and risk for the deputy commissioner, whom I rather liked. I hope Madame didn't go back to the bistro too many afternoons looking for me.

Because of that case, I was able to convince Forsyth to continue this method of using disposable protagonists as it was the most efficient way of stopping them from ruining his life. I never had to charge him more than a million Swiss francs. Fatal illnesses, carelessness with loading weapons, fast cars, ex-wives, being a pain in the ass to MI5 or MI6 or the Foreign Office or the KGB or the CIA or Mossad or ICE or the Surete, no real protection, piece of cake, let nature take its course. I was just an insurance policy.

Kate Martinelli was probably my hardest contract. King wanted her gone but refused to let me bump her off. Silenced sniper rifle at a thousand yards was a no-brainer, but would King listen? No, she would not! King insisted she be allowed to fade into the background.

Kate was honest and brilliant - a terrifying combination. In the end, I had to quietly bump off a tech bro CEO of a Silicon Valley software company, dispose of the body, disguise myself as he, and assume his identity for two years. This made everybody happier, since I, a merciless assassin, was far less of a bastard than he was.

The rest was easy. I hired Martinelli to be head of the firm's security for ten times what she earned at SFPD. I told her that as head of security she had to fly under the radar. Low profile and all that nonsense. She kept her head down for two years while I was busy setting up some rogue AI geeks. She nailed them all. I had to admit negligence and resign in disgrace with only my measly three-hundred-million-dollar buyout to tide me over. The board immediately hired her to replace me. Now she's making too much money and too busy trying to make it an ethical company (Good luck with that!) to ever bother King again. Only retrospectives from here on out.

I didn't have to charge King a dime, which is good because I absolutely adore her novels - can't put one down once I get past the third chapter. Besides, the fee would have just been tip money compared to what Pangalactic Tech paid me. Pity that it happened so soon: I had spent almost the whole two years working toward an indescribably tasty threesome with Kate and her lesbian partner - two women just at the pinnacle of ripeness. Threesomes with lesbians are superior; with mature lesbians they are the ultimate.

In time, Kate will probably discover my subterfuge and come after me, but it should take another thirty years (one for each identity) and hopefully either she or I will be dead.

King will have to live with Mary Russell. I may be a murderous bastard, but I will not kill my mother. Or is it my grandmother? Or great grandmother? I forget which. Oh, well, it's neither here nor there.

Grimes has spent too much time and money drinking her brain cells out in pubs to have me kill off Jury. For Christ's sake, old age should have done him in by now. He was over forty in the first novel and that was fifty years ago. Poor old gal has to keep changing his age and making him forty-something again - she's that hard up for the rent money. That's what bad financial advisers will do to you.

I convinced Dexter that I was an Oxford don and a hopeful mystery writer whom he should take under his wing. I hung out with him, seeking advice and I let him cry in his beer.

He had had his fill of his particularly disagreeable bugger decades ago. He tried to take a page from Forsyth's book and have Morse drink himself to death over the loss of his love, Joan, Thursday's child, to his old friend and colleague Strange. No luck. No matter how hard he tried to destroy his organs, Morse plodded on.

None of my suggestions worked, either. Morse had zero physical skills, no self-defense capability, no common sense, got involved with way too many women murder suspects, was afraid of heights, and yet villain after villain failed to dispose of him. I couldn't get Lewis to go into a rage over the abuse he took from Morse and beat him senseless. Patience of a saint. (I told Dexter to give Lewis Dr. Hobson - I fancied her but the smell of formaldehyde put me off. Lewis never noticed it.) For a self-proclaimed atheist, God sure watched over that miserable troll for a hell or a long time.

In the end, when Morse was in hospital with flu, I seduced his nurse and convinced her Morse was trying to kill me and got her to spike his medicine with traces of the drugs that brought on his kidney failure and heart attack. Took three episodes, but she got him eventually.

Seducing is over-stating things a bit. Yvonne was shagging every male in the hospital and some of the women. I had to pull out all the stops to get her to fall for me. Oral, anal, sixty-nine, and nearly all the positions in the Kama Sutra. She nearly killed me. Fourteen orgasms in a weekend is above and beyond. God knows how many Yvonne had. The things we do to remain true to our profession and finish a job!

Dexter was worried next about Hathaway, but he was the easiest ever. I gave him an introduction to RFK, Jr., he became a gung-ho anti-vaxxer, and he died of a severe case of measles a year to the day after Lewis flew off into the sunset with Dr. Hobson. Dexter bought me three pints of Old Peculier the day he died. And a top up whenever I see him in the pub.

Barnaby is rather like Holmes - too many authors that I'd have to get to agree on snuffing him. Also, I think they're all trying to get into his wife's pants. That Sarah is one uber hot wench! If he dies, those wimp screenwriters are afraid she'll inherit John's TV royalties and run off to Ibiza and work on her tan and indulge in cabana boys. They may be right. A beachful of twenty-something gigolos would be much more appealing than screenwriters.

There you have it. I'm semi-retired, hoping that another mystery writer hangs on to his or her creation too long and gets thoroughly pissed with their gumshoe. It is hard living off of seventy million a year of dividends, plus the few meager tens of millions I make by shorting the markets and convincing a certain President to tweet about stupid and insane things, but it can be done. I'm frugal. I don't have any wives or children (that I know of) to support, I'm not addicted to flashy cars or space travel or clothing or jewelry. Rather than buy mansions and fancy security systems, or trophy wives. I stick and move. I manage.

That certain President has had a falling out with a certain highly obnoxious auto CEO. He and his staff are trying to convince me the prick is fictional, but no writer could write a character or story that bad. Wait a minute! His VP is a horrible writer, isn't he? I'll have to give this some thought. Could be worth billions.

If Tech Boy dies, feel free to drop a line to Interpol. I like challenges now and then. Until then, it's been real.