It sounded like the crack of a whip, but it was the firing of a bolt-action, clip-fed, Italian Mannlicher-Carcano rifle. I heard a casing hit the ground, a soft jingling like loose change. I was good to go and pulled myself towards the rifle. I felt slightly claustrophobic and nervous in my surroundings, but, I looked damn good in my full metal jacket. I prayed that my size didn’t matter; this rifle could have been a 7.35-millimeter caliber, but no, it was a 6.5. I heard the workings of the bolt in the rifle back and forth then back again. It was dark, and everything moved so fast I could hardly feel when my skin was ripped off and left behind. I am only a solider; I do what the fuck I’m told. I have no free will, and my only hope is that I will succeed. I was enlisted for this special op for reasons I will never fucking know.

I don’t remember the speed reached, as I zeroed in on my target. At first, I couldn’t focus; the view was like looking through a hole in a coffee can – pinpointed and exact –there was no room for error. Things slowly fell into place; I saw a midnight blue hue, hells yeah, my target was becoming clear. It was a car or a limo – an open-topped convertible type. The make, the model, all came into focus as I came nearer to my goal. It was a 1961 Lincoln Continental limousine. Everything swirled around me and began to melt away, except for what I was aimed at, a fucking head. Can you believe that shit? I knew at that point I was to become a murderer. Perhaps one of my buddies had failed and now it was down to me to complete what was needed. It was the back of a head, I didn’t know who the hell the head belonged to or why it was so important that he (I knew it was male) died, but I did know that this is what I had to do.

What I did to that man's head, I could never forget. When a bullet enters someone the science of what it does is amazing. I created a temporary wound cavity 12.5 times my own size. The temporary wound causes massive trauma and fluid loss. Milliseconds later the wound cavity closes to a size smaller than the bullet itself, which is the permanent wound cavity. I killed that man; big chunks of flying flesh, brain and skull – all because of me. I can’t lie, I was a little proud, who the fuck wouldn’t be? My operation was a secret one; I’m sure of that now. The reaction from the crowd, in regards to my mission was not encouraging for a hero. I did my damn op; I did what I was supposed to do. Where were my medals and ribbons? Where’s my fucking acknowledgement?

Then I heard the crowds wail, "The president's been shot!" Shit, I didn’t know it was the president. How was I to know? I followed orders; I did what I was told. I killed my superior, and I didn’t even know it. My hero’s welcome was stolen from me. I killed the president. The way I was treated you’d think I was some bum on the streets. Hell, World War II bullets get more recognition and “oh’s” and “ah’s” than I do. So I killed the president, big whoop like presidents haven’t been killed before, at least admire me for having the balls to do what no one else could. I don’t have regrets, never believed in them. Never believed in covering up for someone either, but everyone shoots the messenger.

I would have ratted out my superior, but I couldn’t tell you who the motherfucker was, like I said my op was secretive. I shattered into five pieces after I killed the president. I couldn’t keep track of all my parts so the rumors about me hitting a bystander could be true, I don’t know. I hit the windshield and then dug myself into the carpet, whatever I was more important than this bullshit. You know where they keep me now - in an Archives facility outside of Washington D.C., in a goddamn plastic bag, in an “acid-free” wooden box. It’s like I’m in prison when I should be in a museum – I killed a president. Can't I get a little damn recognition?

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