Deep darkness of night obscures the man in black as he fumbles around his bunk and grabs up his gray backpack, tiptoeing to the door; He is unwilling to jeopardize his mission by idling too long in the stinking hostel. The loud snores, slumped heads, sprawled arms and legs of seven people, bedded in stacked bunks, remind him of how oblivious they are to the stranger amongst them. Now this seemingly innocuous man slinks past them, remorseless, mocking, and relishing it. Stealthily he pops out the door, knowing they never questioned who he is behind the mask he had worn, figuratively and literally. They know not what he came to New York City to do, shockingly. Soon, however, they will at the back of their minds when they question in retrospect — him making nationwide headlines as a 'figure to be identified' inevitable. And proud to be anonymous, he does not look back, much to execute within the next two and a half hours under the shadows of secrecy. 

That was awkward, thinks Luigi. 

Heavily he breathes in the odorous air of the Manhattan street.

If they knew what I've in my backpack, the glory I've planned would be seized by the ignorant who flash badges for a paycheck unwittingly. Getting apprehended mid-mission isn't an option. Not for this guy.

Two blocks down the frosted road and Luigi stops, beeps on his smartphone distracting.  Notifications increased from twenty to twenty three, yet he fails to see who sent them as passersby nearly plow him off the sidewalk.

I hate how these crackbrained New Yorkers walk the streets at this hour, he thinks. They'll provide me cover for the time being, but once I do my thing, they're bound to either give me a hard time or step aside like cowards. This will get interesting.

He raids the Starbucks of an Americano using his smile and good looks before the blushing barista realizes she forgot to ask him for payment. Like a bandit he is gone with the drink and her heart and unapologetic. 

My years of research, months of stalking, will pay off in a flash of  gunshots, he thinks, surveying the entrance to the Hilton Midtown from the walking path to the many surrounding hotels of 6th Avenue. 

Anytime now and that fat cat will walk out, high on decaf and reckless on high stress, rehearsing his presentation for the annual investors conference,  unconcerned, disbelieving his executioner has arrived. That today is his last.

Hood flapping, Luigi grimaces, tightening the black mask that covers his long nose and mouth.

He was warned he who desists, delays, and deposes will himself be disposed, and not a word does he believe from when I told him today will be his last.

Two hours later and he tosses the paper coffee cup in a rusty trash can.

That sick parasite sucks the life out from the weakest among us, he thinks. This is something I've got to do, and there's no turning back now. People can call me the deposer if they want to. They can and they will. Their pains, torments, and struggles I attest for.

The forty-seven story hotel's ground level he studies with narrowed eyes, the doorway wide, the surveillance camera he had noted during all his bicycling stalks much hated now. Its red eye glows, and so does he in awareness this wack will likely be broadcasted nationwide within minutes. But he has no choice, having planned this for so long, worked so hard, the beginning of the revolution his to start with fire. Again by the only way possible. Him being the arsonist using firepower packed in bullets and a bad man's death.

Thuds of approaching footsteps fail to outpace the rapidity of Luigi's heart. Louder the thuds become as the man he has only seen in photos and videos becomes focused dead center at his dilated pupils.

The hidden stalker grapples with shock as the fattest cat of Unified Health Services walks right into his path, checking off boxes in his mind, identifying perfectly. Late-middle aged, blond hair, blue eyes, over six feet tall, plumped up, and pigeon-toed, everything adds up. It all clicks. It's really him — Brian Thomas. Now is the moment of reckoning! The snorting businessman turns out the door, exposing his back to the shadows, not hearing the masked man lunge forth, tiger-like with a sharp-shooting gun for a killer claw. The silencer gives the bullet a gentle pew and harmonic quality as it whizzes thru air; Violently it ripples up a cacophony while it tears into the big guy's gut from the back. His wail of torment antagonizes the black-hooded shooter in the concrete jungle as he reloads his malfunctioning ghost gun, shooting again. Moaning in agony, the bleeding man barrels over on the ground, looks back at his masked shooter, curses vulgarities, and collapses in a red puddle. Onlookers scream just feet away, and the rest back off and out of the path of the fleeing assailant — the CEO nobody to them.

Brows scrunched, Luigi curses himself in the run. 

"Damn it!" he says. "Scumbag's probably still alive."

Gut-wrenched, weapon shoved into his backpack, Luigi runs until he reaches his motorbike on 6th Avenue.

I should've checked, made sure he died on the sidewalk, he thinks, shot another bullet if need was. But it's too late to turn back.

He quickly accelerates, vroom subtle, zigzagging New York City in desperation to escape the rat maze before the snitchy vermin flood it at the break of dawn. He planned this out in deepest detail months in advance, and now he marvels how he flees the crime scene amidst millions when it should be impossible —  by foot or car or any other fool's method.

Now it's time to drop off this backpack, he thinks. Those cops must already be on a manhunt. They'll go insane when they see what I've packed inside to go along with the etchings on those damn bullets stuck in that bloody blob. Idiots. They've the minds of children. So let us play a game.

Racing is his mind while sunbeams paint his face red as death when he enters frosty Central Park and trots the 65th Street transverse bridge with an aching back. A snarl in his lips proves hard to suppress as a bicycler points at him.

I just need the perfect place for my backpack to remain hidden for at least a couple of days, he thinks.

He spies thick undergrowth beneath the walking pathway, looks to assure no one watches, and slides down into the ragged bushes. The change of clothes he brought along he second guesses the usefulness of, again a hoodie, just gray with black pants, definitely his casual style.

"Woo!" he says, tone stern. "I'll be long gone by the time they find what I've planned for them." Carelessly the dark-haired man tosses the backpack downward. It lands with a heavy thud, dust billowed.

Feeling and looking like a new man, he resumes his motorbike travel, determined to ride out of the city in the cleanest, easiest getaway like making it to the top of the class back in the days.

I expect to be watching this unfold on tv very soon, he thinks. 

This is the first CEO execution in history, and it's all on camera to alleviate any denial or confusion regarding how Thomas went down. Scumbag had it coming.

He starts to chuckle slightly, not caring if anyone questions the mask on his nose and mouth on a morning as cold as this.

There's nothing anyone can say or do to make me change my mind. Not even if that CEO had logic enough to change his ways on the outside, help the aching and dying more, would I be thrown off from his parasitic scent. It'd never be enough. 

This execution had to be done.

Whoop! Sound of police sirens fills the air, red and blue lights flashing. His focus is shattered as adrenaline runs through his veins, pulse wild.

He takes an abrupt turn into a side street, motorbike screeching, and there he abandons it, flags down a taxi, and rushes in; The Indian cab driver rolls his eyes over the man's antsiness.

"Come on, take me to the edge of the city!" says Luigi. "I've important business to attend, and I can't be late. I mean it."

Seeing him hold a wallet, the driver lightly mumbles, distracted by flashing lights and sirens of passing police cars on a rampage to rip up the streets and find the killer — he has no idea finagles a getaway ride using his greed to make a buck off a man in a hurry. And he abides, edged to unwittingly aid Luigi's clean getaway.

The dark-haired man thinks, I'm having second doubts. After he drops me off outside the city, should I really get that hotel room for just myself, or should I give up and just call her, or them? Skip it entirely.

He looks at the notification icon topped with a 21.

Who is pestering me by phone? Damn!

Wait ... What if it's my father? Which might be worse than friends ringing me after I just shot up the Big Apple. Or her ... again.

The icon remains unchanged as he stares and gulps.

I  guess I went off everyone's radar this year.

If they each weren't equally worthless, I'd not have given up on them coming to understand my purpose. This is why I'm resolved to depend on no one but myself when it comes to getting the dirty work done.

Luigi slams his fist into the cab door, the thud cranking the taxi driver's head around as he threatens to throw him out. Sarcastically taking the offer, he hands the taximan his cash, taking off toward the highway on foot. He says with heavy underbreath: "I must prevail in this fight against greed and oppression, open minds and hearts of the people to save. I must go —"