TERRY WITHERS AND DIES
At 12:30 this morning I received two emails, one from the late TERRY WITHERS, and the other from his victorious assassin. They both told a similar story, one of a long and patient stakeout, a face-off in which the assassin coolly drew his gun and dared Mr. Withers to fight back, an intense pursuit through icy and wet streets, the sleet mirroring the chill in Terry’s soul as he felt the unmistakeable thip of foam rubber striking him fatally in the back. It was his killer’s first shot. A true assassin needs only one dart.
Mr. Withers was a good man, if not a good assassin. What he lacked in the dexterity required to get his gun out in time to defend himself, he made up for in rogueish stubble and a healthy dose of self-deprication. “I doubt anyone will die with less dignity than I did,” he wrote yesterday. Rest assured, Mr. Withers, there is plenty of time to prove you wrong. Farewell.
To Mr. Wither’s target: you are being hunted by a killer of superior skill. THE TIME FOR COMPLACENCY HAS ENDED.
The Indian summer of the first week of this round has been met by a swift descent into a bloody winter. 24 REMAIN.
