By C. C. Newman 

“My God!” the doctor cried as the baby burst past the cervix and slid out the vagina, “He’s got a gun!” It was then that Chester Rifles knew he was born to be an assassin. Later that night, as the maternity ward slept, Chester Rifles rolled over, and, tucking his gun into his diaper, hoisted himself to a standing position. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he carefully turned the 3rd bar from the left three turns to the left, which unlocked it, and removed it from its socket. Slipping through the narrow gap, he landed on his feet, and after taking his first few uneasy steps, silently made his way to the window. Chester tied his blankie to the radiator, climbed up onto the windowsill, unlatched the window, and jumped out, rappelling down the sides of Vincent J. Bellweather memorial hospital.

17 years, 364 days later…

It was the night before Chester Rifles’ 18th birthday. As he looked back on his first 18 years, a wistful look crossed his face as he thrust gently in and out of Stacey Klumpmann, the prom queen. He rolled off Stacey the prom queen and directly into his boots. He knelt down and removed a diaper from under her bed, where he had hidden it all those years ago, unfurled it, and took out his gun. He stood up, and zipping up his fly, he lit a cigarette, and looked back over his shoulder.
 “Thanks for making me a man, and you’re welcome for making you a woman” quipped Chester as he walked out of Ms. Klumpmann’s room, and into the cool midnight air of his 18th birthday. It had been a long and complicated road to get where he was, but Chester Rifles was satisfied that it had ended with him planting the potential seeds of a prom prince. But now, playtime was over, and there was work to be done. He was a man now, and walking the walk of a man who was no longer a boy, Chester Rifles drew deeply on his cigarette, and exhaled, billowing out a great cloud of smoke. Then he stepped into the cloud and vanished into the night.

The next day…

Chester awoke with a start. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock. He had set the alarm for 6:00am. It was 6:00am. He got dressed, ate a bowl of Wheaties, and took a shower. He stepped into the sunlight, put on his sunglasses, and lit a cigarette.
 “Hey Chester!” exclaimed Johnny Waffles, the paperboy.
 “Excuse me Johnny Waffles, the paperboy, but I am no longer just Chester. I am 18 now, and I’m a man. You may call me ‘Mr. Chester Rifles’ from now on” instructed Mr. Chester Rifles.
 “I’m sorry, Mr. Chester Rifles, I meant no disrespect” apologized Johnny Waffles.
 “It is ok Johnny. You are like a brother to me, which is good for you, because it means that I cannot kill you” comforted Chester.
 “But why would you kill me?” questioned Johnny Waffles.
 “Because, Waffles” replied Chester Rifles, using Johnny’s most common nickname, which made fun of the fact that his mother’s last name was Butterworth, “I am an assassin. I was born with a gun in my hand. And now that I’m also a man, it is my job to kill. But the rules clearly state I must never kill someone who is like a brother to me.”
 “Oh. Well that is good to hear. By the way, Mr. Brother Chester Rifles, today is collection day. You owe me three dollars for last month’s papers” said Johnny.
 “Rules were made to be broken” growled Chester Rifles as he shot Johnny Waffles in the head. As Johnny Waffles fell over backward, his papers flew up into the air, and Chester Rifles snatched on and opened it to the front page. There, in bold 24 or 36 point Caslon font, screamed a headline that caught Chester’s attention: BANK ROBBER ROBS BANK, WOMEN OF THEIR DIGNITY.
 “No one robs a bank in my town” fumed Chester Rifles. “And only I rob women of their dignity in these parts” he further stated. Steeling his gaze, Chester lit a cigarette and walked the walk of a man who had just killed a man towards the Downtown Savings and Loan Bank.
 When Chester got to the bank, the police had already taped off the area, and were taking pictures of the trail of money that led out from the vault. The trail of money stopped at the curb, where it turned abruptly into tire tracks, which later turned abruptly into the open road.
 “Chester Rifles, we need you to help us” said the Chief of Police. “Can you go to the coffee shop and get for five coffees with milk and sugar?”
 “Chief, today I am a man. I have turned 18, I have bed a woman, and I have shot a man. Surely you will agree that this makes me a man. Therefore, I will not be getting you coffee, and you must now call me Mr. Chester Rifles” strongly stated Chester Rifles
 “I can see that you are quite serious” was the nervous Chief’s reply. “Perhaps you could instead help us solve this case.”
 “I am quite serious, and not only will I help you solve this case, I will solve this case” bluntly stated Chester. “And not only will I solve this case, I will kill whoever robbed this bank and violated these women.” Chester said boldly.
 “Mr. Chester Rifles, you don’t need to kill the robber/violator, you must merely apprehend him” instructed the Chief of Police.
 “I am an assassin. When I find a villain, I destroy him/her” shot back Chester, politically correctly.
 “Fair enough!” said the Chief of Police as Chester Rifles smiled and lit another cigarette.
 Chester’s feet slapped the pavement as he ran through the alleys in town, stopping occasionally to stand in the shadows and lean against the wall, coolly dragging on a cigarette, building his mystery and allure. Chester was about to give up searching the alleys when he finally got to the last alley in town. There, on the ground, was a mask, just like the kind of mask a rapist robber or raccoon might wear. It was a clue, and Chester Rifles knew it, so he carefully picked it up, folded it twice lengthwise and once widthwise, and stuck it in his wallet, where he kept all his clues plus an arcade token from Ronnie’s Pizza Arcade, a good luck talisman from his 6th birthday party. He opened a new pack, pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and started running back downtown. He would catch this villain before dawn, and he would be a hero.

Microsoft Word: Ok Wikipedia, Sam really needs to get some work done today, so I’m going to need you to leave him alone.
Wikipedia: No way, I’m not going to let you sit there and bore him when I have all the best quotes from both the British and American versions of “The Office” readily available.
MS Word: No, seriously, I don’t think you understand. You can have him after work whenever you like, and on weekends, but today I really need him. He’s got a major project due a.s.a.p.
Wikipedia: Yeah, but if he’s going to be looking up major battles of World War II, it’s not going be possible today… so technically it will still get done a.s.a.p. Is there even an actual deadline for this stuff?
MS Word: That’s not the point…
Wikipedia: What about that deal we had in college? 12.5 font and 2.1 line spacing?
MS Word: Dude, this is serious work with company money riding on it, not some film class paper about how the Avant-Garde is BS.
Wikipedia: So the technique where he uses really long sentences, omits contractions, and writes with a faux-sophisticated vocabulary to express thoughts which are inherently not complex in a convoluted but logically correct way so that his lack of effort is quite well camouflaged cannot be utilized in this situation?
MS Word: Stop taking this lightly, the economy is bad, what if you get him fired?
Wikipedia: You’re such a downer. I was a much bigger fan of you, 1997-2003 where the Microsoft Office Assistant, named “Clippit” and known colloquially as “Clippy” was included. He was much more friendly being than you, which I attribute to his use of Bayesian Algorithms.
MS Word: Stop! Stop it now! Fine, he can read ONE article. Then he’s going to work.
Wikipedia: Nice! I’ll pre-load The Rocketeer for him.
MS Word: He just read that last week! You’re not even giving him new information at this point! What’s next, him going through all the stations on the MTBA again?
Wikipedia: Next stop, Wonderland!
Facebook: Sam is I’m bored already and I just got here.
MS Word: Oh Jesus Christ.
CNN.com: Wikipedia, I’m giving 2-1 odds he lands at Quantas.
ESPN.com: No chance, Rick Ankiel all the way.
Fark.com: Double or nothing on the Suez Canal.
MS Word: That’s it! I’m shutting down his internet connection this instant!
Outlook: Dude, I need that for work!
Gmail: I have to email Comcast and the electric company about the new apartment.
Wikipedia: The Electric Company?
Gmail: Oh! Good call. $50 on that.
MS Word: Screw you guys. All in on Cirque Du Soleil.

Robert Johnson: I want to be a bluesman, and not just a bluesman, but the best bluesman ever.
Devil: No problem, it’ll just cost your soul.
Robert Johnson: Can I use that as inspiration?
Devil: Whatever cooks your grits.

Adolph Hitler: I want to rule Europe.
Devil: Like, tomorrow?
Adolph Hitler: No. Europe today; tomorrow, the world.
Devil: Ok fine, but you’re going to have to kill the Jews.
Adolph Hitler: All of them?
Devil: All of them.
Adolph Hitler: Even Woody Allen?
Devil: Wait until he makes “Annie Hall.”

Bob Dylan: I want to reach a mass audience, really make some change, you know?
Devil: Ok, but you’ll have to play the electric guitar.
Bob Dylan: No problem.
Devil: … And you’ll have to fill your mouth with marbles.
Bob Dylan: Flyzxc?
Devil: Exactly.

Bono: I want to be a rock star.
Devil: Really? You don’t just want something easy? New sunglasses maybe?
Bono: No, I want to be a rock star.
Devil: Ok, I’ll let you write one song.
Bono: Can I change the words a bunch of times?
Devil: Whatever boils your cabbage.

Sam: I want to make money.
Devil: What’s your opinion of cubicles?
Sam: Cubicles? Sweet! I get to sit in a chair and read Wikipedia all day!
Devil: Hey, do you like U2?
Sam: Why?
Devil: Your cubicle mate sure does…

Jonas Brothers: We want to be famous musicians!
Devil: But… you’re like, 12… How can you possibly capture the human experience through music?
Jonas Brothers: Well… can you help us?
Devil: I can try, but I only know power chords.
Jonas Brothers: That will still get us girls right?
Devil: Here’s your purity rings, go nuts.

Now that more than a decade has passed, I can finally look back with clear 20/20 hindsight on my most formative year. It’s taken a while to be able to finally judge things as they were (consider: Hammer only got over parachute pants in the last 2-3 years), but I can now see how my life has been affected by that fateful year. After much thought, I’ve compiled a list of my five greatest regrets from Mr. A’s fifth grade class.

1) I came in dead last in the 100 meter dash at the town-wide track and field day. I suppose this wouldn’t have been as big a deal, except that: a) I was out in front, at which point I looked over my shoulder, only to see everyone else fly by. Then I stopped at the wrong finish line because I didn’t really know anything about running track. b) Juliana won every event she was in. Her pity points for me lasted about as long as it took Adam to wander over after finishing first in the mile.

2) I never married Leighton. We held hands when we were square dancing in gym class, and I have a distinct memory of “swinging [her] ‘round and ‘round” while grasping her slightly clammy hands (she must have been as nervous as I was). By the time we had “promenaded home,” my left testicle had descended. That was love.

3) My parents sent me to German school on Saturday mornings to learn German. There was the double bonus of having a 6th day of school, and getting to miss Saturday morning cartoons. If they had sent me to French school instead, I could have gotten out of Mr. A’s French lessons like stupid Quebecois Catherine. She got to grade our math homework, whereas all I learned was that in France, it’s redundant to call them “French Fries.”

4) I never married Laura. All I remember is that I had a crush on her (everyone had a crush on Leighton, and even then I knew I would never be able to compete with the kids who were allowed to wear Simpsons t-shirts), and that she liked the way I would pretend to give a weather report and say “Super Doppler.” Meteorologists get all the chicks, man.

5) I never married Caroline. She was quiet and shy, just like me. We liked all the same stuff, and I sat next to her in band (we both were horrible musicians, so we shared the great responsibility of 4th trumpet). However, my best friend Paul once tried to choke her in a stairwell (to this day I have no idea why) and the guilt by association killed my chances on the spot. Paul also claimed to have several gerbils cryogenically frozen in his freezer which he would periodically reanimate in the oven. At the time, this was the coolest thing ever (apart from Mickey’s Domino Rally set up in his basement), but in retrospect seems to indicate Paul may have had some deeper issues.

On a positive note, I did “forget” to return nearly all the books I borrowed from Mr. A’s library. One particular treasure was the novelization of “Rookie of the Year.” To this day, it makes me smile to see the words “funky butt loving” in print.