Angel and the Assassin

and sexy. An image of Sir naked and huge made him rub
    harder. Sir digging through garbage to get his blanket back. Sir kicking those
    dudes‟ asses in the park because they had called him and Sir names.
    During his flogging, he had experienced a great acceptance, a sense of being at
    peace with his situation. In that moment he could live with not being loved, with
    being temporary, with being a project. “ I’ll make a man of him and send him out
    into the world .” All the things Sir had said to Freddie while having no clue that he
    sat out on the stairs listening to every word. But Angel was not at peace with Sir
    not loving him, not in the cold light of morning. He was angry and resentful.
    Tears streamed down his cheeks as cum shot out of his dick. “I love you, you
    mean fucker!”
    Bent at the waist, his forehead pressed into his blankie, he wept hard for
    several minutes. When he had cried himself out, he sat panting, getting his breath
    back. A slight soreness in his shoulders reminded him of the flogging he had taken
    last night. He hadn‟t cried then. He‟d been brave and resourceful, and he would be
    that now.
    Angel took the padlock in his hand. “What would you do if someone locked you
    up, Sir? You‟d get out and kill them.”
    Images had always been easy for Angel to conjure. He turned, positioning his
    body as if he was outside the cage with the lock in his hand. He pictured Sir turning
    the combination when he had opened the padlock to give him his blanket and
    snacks. Quickly he turned back, holding the image in his mind, and found the
    numbers without consciously knowing what they were. The lock fell away in his
    hand, and the gate opened.
    “Totally, deeply sweet!”
    He crawled out of the crate and went straight to the toilet, carrying the bottle,
    and poured it down. Afterward he took a shower and pulled on a pair of his new
    underwear. He really liked the plain black ones; they were so sexy and accentuated
    his basket, making him look bigger. He primped for a while in front of the mirror,
    flexing his biceps.
    “Now, let‟s find out exactly who you are, Sir, because there has to be some
    information here.” Angel began going through drawers in the living room and the
    two bedrooms, searching thoroughly, and carefully replacing every item exactly
    where it had been. He searched the closets and felt under tables and furniture the
    way Sir did.
    There was nothing.

    150
    Fyn Alexander

    In the hall he opened the coat closet. A couple of Sir‟s coats and Angel‟s leather
    jacket hung there together with a nice new jacket Sir had bought him the other day
    that he had not had the chance to wear yet. He went through all the pockets, not
    expecting to find anything, and he didn‟t. He looked up at the top shelf, which was
    well above his eye level and reach, and ran to the kitchen to bring a chair from the
    table.
    Standing on the chair, he examined the shelf, feeling around until his fingers
    found a crevice at the back and pulled. The shelf lifted on a hinge, and underneath
    it was a box. Jumping down with the box, he sat on the floor and opened it.
    A bundle of passports fastened together with an elastic band was the first
    thing he pulled out. Angel pulled the elastic over his wrist and began flipping
    through the passports. “John Carpe, English; Markus Muller, German; Louis-Philip
    Laurent, French.” He looked through several more, one Russian, one South
    American. Another UK passport. Kael Saunders. “Every one of them has your
    picture, Sir.”
    More papers lay in the box, birth certificates for the different names, work
    visas for different countries. At the bottom lay a small handgun. In another smaller
    box lay syringes and sealed vials of liquid he could not identify. A small leather tool
    roll lay there also. Angel took it out and unrolled it. A row of identical but different-
    sized instruments with one missing were neatly lined up in narrow pockets. Angel
    removed one and flicked the switch. Gingerly he touched the blade; it was very
    sharp. He flicked it in and out experimentally. “It‟s a scalpel.”
    He’s either a serial killer or a professional killer . Either way, it would not be
    good for Angel to get caught with this stuff. Quickly he began to pack everything
    back in the box. He would return everything to its exact place, and Sir would never
    know he knew.
    A footstep outside the door made him freeze. When he heard the key in the
    lock, he nearly pissed