[ WP ] You are a retired assassin . The only thing you want is to die . Keeping you from this is the fulfillment of your last contract : A celebrated performer paid you to kill him if he ever tried to make a `` comeback '' as an old man . After years in retirement , the performer announces a world tour .

The cane clicked softly down the long tile hallway. John's liver spotted, pale, wrinkled hands clutched the handle of the cane tightly. He was already breathing heavily and beads of sweat ran down his crooked spine. His eyes were fixed on the door at the end of the hallway. The bright golden star taped to the door pulled him forward. 
 
 A contract is a contract, John thought to himself as he struggled down the hallway. In his prime he could have crawled faster than this. He paused to wipe sweat from his brow with an old stained handkerchief. The door opened and a giant of a man stepped out. The man was nearly as wide and tall as the doorway. His shiny bald head nearly touching the top of the door jam. 
 
 `` Old man, what are you doing down here?'' The giant asked John. 
 
 John's cane continued to click down the hall. 
 
 `` Old man, I asked you a question!'' The giant's voice rose in anger. 
 
 Only a few more feet go. The man stepped away from the door and stomped his way toward John. His face growing red his beady eyes nearly popping out of his face. He reached a hand out to stop the old man. 
 
 The cane shot up with incredible speed. The hardwood handle connected with the giant's throat with a sickening crunch. The giant fell to the ground clutching his collapsed wind pipe desperately sucking in air. 
 
 I still got it. John smiled and walked forward a little faster. The rush of adrenaline filled him with fire. A feeling he had missed for such a long time. Wrinkled pale fingers wrapped themselves around the door handle and twisted. 
 
 An older man sat in front of a mirror lined with lights. He was brushing out his shoulder length black hair while he hummed. The brush stopped mid stroke. Wide terror filled eyes stared at John in the mirror. 
 
 `` No. Please no.'' The artist begged. 
 
 `` We have a contract.'' John's voice came out in a ragged whisper. 
 
 The artist tried to stand from his chair but John's hand came down on his shoulder. The artist struggled for a second before he felt the cold barrel of the gun press against his neck. 
 
 `` No one would believe that I shot myself the night of my triumphant return.'' The artist said. 
 
 `` You're right.'' 
 
 John reached into his pocket. He set down the orange bottle full of small white pills. 
 
 `` Pour yourself a drink, I do n't have all night.'' 
 
 The artist poured his favorite whisky into a glass with shaking hands. 
 
 `` I thought you were dead.'' He whispered. 
 
 `` Not yet.'' 
 
 With trembling fingers the artist opened the bottle and poured the pills into his palm. He sobbed as tears ran down his cheeks. 
 
 John's cane clicked down the hallway as the paramedics rushed past him. Maybe I should come out of retirement too. He shook his head and laughed. 
 
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