Gun Man

"So who is this guy, exactly?" asked Agent Folkner. He was walking side-by-side with his co-worker, Agent Johns, down the interrogation block. One-way mirrors were on either side of them, each twelve by twelve containing its own good cop/bad cop scenario.

"Well, he doesn't seem to have a name; he wants us to call him Sally, but I'm not doing that shit. We caught him right after he whacked the ambassador, and he willingly surrendered. He may have information to give, which'll mean he might get let off the hook, but we gotta hold on to him as tight as possible, cause this guy has an agenda, and if he gets out, we'll have no way of picking him up again unless he puts his hands in the air."

"Didn't we print him? Couldn't we use those to track him at future sites?"

"He has no fingerprints."

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Nope, we had to get prints off his tongue, it's his only source of DNA encoding on his entire body that could be testable, so unless he starts licking his victims, it'll be one tough mother to track him down. He burned the prints off of his finger tips and toes, and did something to the skin on his chest, arms, head and groin, were not sure if it was pyro or acid based, but...it prevents him from growing hair of any kind."

"Sick bastard." Folkner replied with a grimace. They stopped in front of IR-7 and peered through the one way mirror at their next subject. He looked about 6' 2" from where he was sitting, close to 200 pounds, rock solid. His head was smooth and hairless, including his face. He'd almost look like a baby had it not been for his chiseled jaw, fierce blue eyes, and a bit of age that most likely came from smoking cigarettes. He was still wearing the caterer's suit he had on when the CIA captured him in Puerto Rico, dried blood splattered across his chest, a few speckles still on his face. He stared at the plate of donuts in front of him with a look of discontent.

"Let's do this." Johns said, as he took a deep breath and turned the knob to IR-7.

Both of the agents took a seat across from their man, and waited for a response from him. He ignored the government men before him, and continued to observe the pastries at the center of the table. Finally, without shifting his gaze, he said,

"It's a mystery to me why people decide to throw the greatest aspects of human life away for a sweet snack."

Folkner cleared his throat and began to remove the plate of donuts when the prisoner placed his cuffed hands on the table and grabbed the end of the dish before the agent could touch it.

Now the man before them looked Folkner in the eye. He lifted a donut to his mouth and took a bite. He chewed slowly, ignoring Johns and keeping his focus on Folkner. He then turned his face to the left and spat.

"We are inclined to believe you have information that may be of use to the United States government, Mister....?" began Johns.

"I told you to call me Sally." he replied.

"Cut the bullshit, all right? You have the opportunity to shorten a long prison sentence, buddy, you may even get immunity in the United States, depending on the usefulness of this information, so can you please cooperate and give us a viable name to call you?"

"Sally sounds viable to me. I know of many people by the name of Sally."

"Christ, this isn't going anywhere." muttered Folkner. "We're giving you a chance to redeem yourself, asshole, help the good guys get some bad guys, ensure the safety of American citizens-"

"Redeem myself from what?" interrupted the man.

"Your crimes. We've only been able to nail you for the murders you committed this past Sunday, but you and I both know you've been
doing this for a long time."

The man smiled.

"My crimes? I see them as personal accomplishments that benefit society. It's all about balance, equilibrium."

"What the fuck is your religion? ying-yang?" asked Johns.

"I have no religious beliefs, I only believe in the job I have been tasked with."

"Who gives you these jobs? Who do you work for?" asked Folkner.

"The highest bidder."

"Working for the highest bidder doesn't make you sound like much of a paragon, Slick-"

"Sally."

".....Working for the highest bidder doesn't make you sound like much of a paragon, Sally."

The man smirked.

"I believe there is good and bad in the world. Sometimes the good does bad, and sometimes the bad does good, they need each other, but neither side sees this. They'll fight and fight, with the intention of ridding the other from the face of the earth, and the only thing that keeps them from succeeding is people like me. I keep these sides in check, inadversely balancing the universe.

"That's some scholarly shit right there." commented Johns. "Do you really believe that?"

The man chuckled.

"Of course not, I was just stalling."

Folkner froze. John unfolded his arms and slowly leaned back. Neither of them removed their eyes from the man across the table. The room was silent as the prisoner switched his gaze between the two agents.

The tension broke when the man smiled and broke into laughter. Folkner and Johns hesitantly smiled back. They glanced at each other and nodded; it was time for a break.

"You're quite a character, John Doe. We're gonna take five, want anything?" asked Folkner.

"Sure. Coffee, black."

Folkner and Johns stepped out of the room. The man began to whistle.

"You get his coffee?" inquired Johns, who was sipping a bottle of orange juice.

"Yep, I accidentally poured some sugar in by instinct, I hope this carb-cutting asshole doesn't notice."

Johns shrugged. Folkner wrapped his hand around the door knob.

"You ready?" he said. Johns held up his hand.

"What do you say we sound proof it?"

Folkner stared at Johns.

"You want to get violent with this guy?"

"We aren't getting shit from him, it might have to come to that. No one's ever monitoring the cameras, we can just go in later and erase the tapes. What do you say?"

Folkner nodded hesitantly and flipped a switch next to the door; a flashing red light indicated the room had been sound proofed.

When they returned, Folkner set the man's coffee in front of him while Johns took a seat opposite of their subject. The man took a large gulp of his coffee and made an expression of reflection, as if he were about to judge his beverage. The two agents waited in anticipation.

"It's too sweet." he stated blankly. There was a brief moment of silence.

"Well I apolo-" Folkner began, when the man splashed the rest of his coffee into his face. He screamed in agony, and before Johns could react the man shattered the chain on his handcuffs and shoved the table into the agent's gut. Folkner drew his pistol and fired a blind shot, almost hitting his incapacitated partner. The man struck the gun from his hands and snapped his neck, moving fluidly and swift like lightning. He then grabbed the pistol and put a bullet hole through Johns' head, opening the back of his skull and releasing blood and brain matter across the tiled floor. The man stood there, his heart rate normal; his hands, murder weapons in their own right, calm and steady. He slipped the pistol in his left boot and began to undress.

Twenty minutes later, a bald CIA agent left IR-7. A janitor passed him with a custodial cart on his way out of the building, tipping his baseball cap.

"Howdy sir." he said cheerfully. The bald agent didn't acknowledge him. The janitor shrugged and continued to push his cart until he reached IR-7. He bent over to grab a squirt bottle when he noticed something seeping through the bottom of the door.

It was blood.