The Ghost of Snapped Shot

Or, welcome to my low-maintenance heck.

Mustafa al-'Uzayti, briefly

Somewhere in Pakistan...

Mustafa hurried on, knowing he was running way behind schedule. If only he hadn't stopped for tea, he wouldn't have to rush as much as he did.

And yet, he thought, why should he be breaking his back over all of this? It's not like there weren't a billion other people that'd be more than happy to do his job. Let any one of them come and take it from him, any time of the day.

He shook the thought off, cursing as he pushed his beat up old Toyota faster towards the city. He'd be there before too long.

Too long being too late, as the case may be. The helicopter flew not sixty feet over his head, as fast as any he'd ever seen. And that could only mean one thing...

"The Americans!"

He slammed on his brakes and jumped out of the car, running as fast as he could to the top of the next ridge. It provided all the vantage point he needed to see what he had to see.

The flash lit up the town seconds before the boom did, but the explosion couldn't have been clearer. His services would no longer be necessary.

He walked sullenly back to his car, wondering in his newfound haze of unemployment what life had in store for him next.


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