The year was 1956. The mafia was at large and your safety at small. I was a detective, making sure people were caught and mysteries were solved. That wasn't all I did.
I was also an assassin, and my latest mission was me being that. An assassin. I had been hired to kill some shmuck who had gotten into some business he shouldn't have gotten into, get me? Of course you do. He messed with my contractor, a higher up in the mafia, by picking up a load of money intended for Capodi Picazi. I never said I was a good detective. So I had trailed him to his hideout, a small apartment building in downtown NYC. I kicked open the door and carefully looked around, revolver poised to kill. A bullet whizzed by my head and I reacted with a bang, firing back with lethal precision. My assailant jumped from the shadows and tried to tackle me. I quickly sidestepped and narrowly dodged his outstretched hands. As I spun to face him, he sprung back up and swung the butt of his gun at my face. It connected and sent me falling to the ground. I backed up slowly, tyring to recollect myself. As I did this, he raised his revolver to point at me. Looking up, I got positive identity match: this was my target. As he stared at me, I swung my heel into his shin, shattering bone and sending him to the ground, dropping his revolver in the process. I got up, pulled out my pocketknife, delivered a one liner I can't recall and jabbed the knife deep into his chest.
Then I woke up.
