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on the issue long.
    He seldom dwel ed on anything long. He came to the conclusion that ‘normal’ was accepting what the weak constructed to stave off the strong, to impede the takeover of the elite.
    It was a numbers game. The weak had more of ‘em so took the necessary precautions to ensure their safety, at the detriment to the few strong ones out there with any bal s. Every so often the weak could trick a strong one on to their side, often through money and brainwashing them on the value of a moral society; moral in the eyes of the weak.
    This meant protecting those little bastards at the expense of your own time, sweat and blood.
    No , Rafael thought, I am the normal one, taking what’s mine .
    After al , wasn’t it Herbert Spencer, a man of considerable mental strength, who coined the phrase ‘survival of the fittest’? Darwin’s “natural selection” at its finest. The weak tried to berate him selection” at its finest. The weak tried to berate him into silence too; his ideas tore apart their notion that there was a creation. A creation that a God would have made with equal love for al .
    Rafael was not sure of God’s existence, neither did he deny one. Hel , he witnessed too many people cal out His name either moments before or during their own actual trip to the other side.
    Perhaps one day, he too would find this God waiting for him on the other side of some cosmic journey on the coattail of whatever soul he had.
    More than likely , Rontego mused with a morbid sense of serenity, he would just become worm food in some anonymous hole in the ground.
    Rafael shook the thoughts from his mind.
    Today was not a day for such morbid thoughts. He leaned over and stretched to his toes. He always enjoyed a good stretch. With a grunt Rafael jerked up and began getting ready for the day.
    Today he was going to talk to his boss. The boss. Rontego never dealt with anyone but the boss, though he ran into a lot of the old man’s associates when he was getting an assignment or col ecting his cash. He always dressed nice when going into ‘the office’. After al , he was a professional.
    Minutes later, Rafael Rontego was walking down the streets of Buffalo. The office was a mile or two down the road and the cold invigorated the assassin.
    From top to bottom, he was dressed in the finest quality clothing. Atop his jet-black hair rested his trademark hat. A gangster-style, black felt hat that brimmed outward from his head several inches in circumference was traced by a black ribbon that was almost flush against the felt. The hat was perfect and round except in the front where it indented as if to al ow a forefinger to sweep from the wearer’s head.
    He wore a black Giorgio Armani suit measured to perfection and lined by smooth gray pinstripes. Tucked into his jacket was an elegant Gianni Versace silver tie. His white cuffs trimmed the outside of his suit and his silver French cufflinks appeared and reappeared in time with his brisk gait.
    If you were lucky enough to get a close view of his cuff links, your death was probable. However, if one could speak from the grave, they would tel you that the letters engraved on the links were S and M.

    Rumor had it that Rafael might be a sadomasochist.
    Rafael ignored the absurdity of the claim. He’d be damned if he ever told what those initials stood for.
    Rontego stopped. He tucked his most recent purchase, a copy of the Buffalo News, under his arm and stooped over to tie his Gucci wing tips. Rafael continued his walk to the office.
    A block later he reached inside his long overcoat and pul ed out a wad of twenty-dol ar bil s.
    Without breaking step, he snatched one out of his money clip, reinserted the wad, and folded the twenty into a smooth crease. As he rounded the corner of the block there was an old beggar.
    Predictable . The man sent his cup up to Rafael.
    Rontego dropped the twenty into his cup and started to walk away.
    I don’t shit where I sleep , he thought.
    As an