[ WP ] You 're an exceptionally skilled assassin , doing an interview on your deathbed . Your calling card is making a homicide look accidental or natural . You 're known only by your code name : 20-16

“ It was polonium ” the nondescript bald man wheezed, his intense blue eyes boring into me. “ Putin knew who my next target was. ” He lay in his hospital bed, skin greasy with sweat like an overcooked sausage, the smell of death driving even his police guard outside the private room. 
 
 I leaned forward, rapt. Years of fruitless searching had finally paid off, in the interview of a lifetime. 
 
 “ Who was your next target, 20-16? ” I asked smoothly, journalistic training somehow remembered in the heat of the moment. He raised an eyebrow. I gulped, remembering the death count this man had, even on death ’ s door. He laughed, chest shuddering erratically. 
 
 “ Don ’ t you want a confession first? Prince? Gene Wilder? David Bowie? Carrie Fisher and her mother? ” I gaped for a moment, stunned, my earlier questions forgotten. 
 
 “ T-That was you? ” I stared at him. He grinned like a shark. 
 
 “ Everyone had enemies, even David Bowie ” he smiled sadly. “ Even me. ” The heartbeat monitor beeped faithfully in the background, his only companion now. 
 
 “ How did you do it? I mean t-they all died naturally, right? ” the man chuckled. 
 
 “ Celebrities are my favourite targets, there is always a nasty chink in their armour: drugs, crazy fans, cults. So many options. People believe what they want to believe ” I lost track of my thoughts, enraptured at the blitheness of someone saying they *liked* to kill some of the most influential people in the world. 
 
 “ S-So, none of these deaths were accidents? ” I stuttered, wishing I ’ d brought a phone with better battery life. 
 
 “ Prince was a simple overdose, people didn ’ t even see the signs of forced consumption. Carrie Fisher, well, that took some work. Taking her mother out as well was exhausting. David Bowie was already dying, I just made sure he succumbed in a timelier manner ” he listed them all clinically, satisfaction evident in his voice. 
 
 I suppose that you don ’ t become the greatest hitman of the century if you do n't like it. 
 
 “ Heart attacks are my favourite ” he continued. “ Especially if they ’ re old, nobody ever suspects with the right substances ” I started as a nurse walked in with food. 
 
 “ Turn on the TV, please, Gwen ” he said, voice now silky and rolling. He was obviously adept at disguising himself. 
 
 The TV blared to life as the nurse left the room. I winced at the volume. It was just the new president-elect giving a speech. Boring politicians giving boring speeches, the usual. Political journalism never interested me. 
 
 “ She ’ s the one who slipped it to me, I can tell from her guilty eyes ” he looked at me. “ When you write my biography, can you please change that part where a nurse killed me to something more dramatic? ” 
 
 “ Of course ” I lied. No way was I getting rid of something that ironic. 
 
 “ So, you wanted to find out the person I was trying to assassinate, right? ” the man grinned toothily. I nodded. He pointed at the TV. 
 
 I gawked, mind frozen for a few seconds, as my head snapped around and I watched Donald Trump collapse, face drawn in pain, onto the podium. 
 
 
 
 
 

