Barracuda checked his watch and grunted softly.
Nearly time to take out that darned life-hating, mother-copulating, anti-gun, anti-life, Lord-darn dissident.
Agent Dan Barracuda of the Pro-Life Assassination Unit was a battle-hardened asset, and one committed Christian soldier. He knew the risks, he knew the angles and he knew what he had to do, but this was no ordinary mission. Todd Snider was different. Snider was dangerous.
Snider LAUGHED at Republicans. Laughed!
It was hard to believe but Barracuda saw the file and it was true.
Barracuda had neutralized many anti-life threats before this one and he always found it easy. As easy as shootin’ a moose, he once joshed to his Bureau Chief, Dex “Praise-the-Lord” Drexler.
As easy as shootin’ a Mooslim, Dex had joshed back.
He chuckled softly at the memory. Good old Dex. Lord how Dan missed the old guy’s wisdom and his wise-cracking. Poor old Dex, run over by a Democrat soccer-mom in a supermarket parking lot. Senseless. Crushed flat by a huge SUV. They identified him by his Jesus tattoos.
Here on this hillside it was easy to pretend the Lord’s creation hadn’t been defiled by fornicators, sex educators and evolution-teaching perverts. If you turned away from the city’s lights, you could see the great sweep of the Milky Way, placed there by the good Lord so that Murkans could shoot animals at night.
Something rustled at the base of the treeline and Barracuda swung his Barrett sniper rifle on its bipod, the scope picking out crags and snowdrifts in the soft evening coolness. Three figures appeared from the undergrowth, alert, feral and savage. A wolf, a moose and a bear.
Barracuda checked his watch again. Five more minutes. Praise the Lord. Plenty time.
Gently, lovingly, he squeezed the trigger, and the .50 bullet ripped through the evening air, killing the three animals where they stood and spattering hair and tissue across the trees and snow. A scene of true beauty, red on white.
Dan smiled gently and whispered a silent prayer. Thank the Lord for His wonderful Creation given unto us pro-Life Murkans. And darn the unbelievers to heck!
Barracuda was no amateur though, and he wasn’t about to waste time praising the Lord for providing three animals to shoot. That would come later, in church. No indeed. Tonight, there was a life-hating protest-singer to neutralize, and he leaned lovingly towards the rifle stock, squinting down the telescopic sight.
Any minute now, the stage door would open, and out would come that tree-huggin’, peace lovin’, pot smokin’, porn watchin’, love makin’, pro choicin’, gay weddin’, skin-color-blinded, conspiracy-minded, lazyass hippy.
Thank you Lord, muttered Barracuda, as he fondled the stock of his rifle.
Todd Snider was tired. He was hungry and he was cold. Todd was sick of this life on the road after ten long weeks of gigging and his manager, Elvis, was in the firing line.
Just get off my fuckin case Elvis. Ok? Gimme ten minutes to myself. We’ll be good. Ten minutes?
Elvis chuckled. That’s my boy.
And then his phone rang.
Elvis frowned. It was late and he wasn’t expecting a call.
Don’t go out the stage door, the voice grated. They gonna try an’ take out your boy.
Todd stirred on the bunk bed. Whassat?
Elvis frowned. Nothin’. Just some nut.
… to be continued …
Previously on Bock