Face to Face II:
The Sociologist Who Got in the Way
by Michael S.
Collins
I looked
around. Mingling with the old types and the idiot
(now wrestling with a tobacco releasing vending
machine in an attempt to get his change back)
were students, OAPs and single mothers complete
with their screaming little angels. Nothing makes
my hackles rise faster than one of those bloody
loud children wailing at any given public
opportunity! Kill the lot of them! They give me a
headache! Hang on, I can kill them.
Wait a second!
Dr. Williams was in again. I must have just
missed him.
“Excuse
me, sir”, said an interrupting old woman,
“What do you think of the views of Max Weber?
Don’t you think his Orientals teachings were
a bit racist?”
I turned to
this wannabe sociologist, enraged. “How dare
you! How dare you call the founder of Weimar
Germany a racist?” I said. “That is
beyond the pale fire. Have you read nothing
beyond limited social expression, you sorry
wretch of a pseudo-intellectual?”
“What I
meant was...” started the woman, clearly
flustered.
“No
comebacks, lady. If you cannot read
somebody’s theoretical Perspective before
you insult his memory, then I shall have nothing
more to hear from you.”
Her skin
matched her flowing white hair and her worm tail
glasses drooped down her nose as she looked back
in aghast at someone who had actually bothered to
answer her. I cannot stand distractions, or
ignorance, and my temper was starting to fail.
Williams was
out! In the ten seconds I had turned, he had
changed his sign! I stood up, kicked the chair
back and screamed aloud. He must still be in this
room. So logic dictates someone here is the
person I was paid to kill. I flashed out my gun
and shot down the sociologist. She annoyed me!
People looked over in horror, but soon became
calm as a hail of gunfire removed them. Ancients
frowned no more as they chocked on their blood
loss, students no more bemoaned cash flow crisis,
and babies were silenced, and for that I was
truly grateful. Soon I was out of bullets, and
the chatter had ceased. The floor had been dyed
red, and I felt infinitely calmer. Everyone else
was dead. Now Dr. Williams was out, for sure.
Then I saw him.
Sitting, watching me, the mere hint of a smile.
He jumped up and walked over to me, never keeping
the smile away, and shook me warmly by the hand.
“Hello”,
he said, “I am Dr. Williams.”
I started to
cry, and screamed in despair.
“What do
you want from me?” I asked, in tears.
“I can
only say one thing to you”, said the doctor,
“Everyone but me is dead. You must be the
worst hit man I’ve ever seen.”
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