Exit Strategy (working title)

I'm always ready. I have one set of clothes on me, one in my closet, and one in the washer. The rest is packed in bags in the spare room. My harddisks are triggered with plastic explosives, one press of one button, and it's all gone. I have three backpacks containing parachutes lying around, just in case I need to leave my 6th floor appartment through the window. The left pocket of my pants always has my wallet, the right pocket my phone. The left pocket of my jacket contains my keys, the right one my iPod. The inside pocket holds a 9mm handgun. I'm always ready.

I've been ready for 14 years now. But I never needed any of it. Some people would say I've lived in fear all those years, but I wouldn't. I don't fear my past catching up with me. I just know it will some day. I just won't like it.

2002

I'd had it with smalltown upstate New York. Sure, the people are friendly, the green is nice, the air doesn't try to kill you and, wherever you go, the stench of pissed-on hookers is nowhere to be found. I just didn't fit in there.

Don't get me wrong, I'd changed. I wasn't the man I used to be. But your history doesn't change just because you do. A president's always gonna be treated like a president. And you'll always think of a friend as a friend, no matter how decayed his corpse is. Same thing with me I suppose.

So I moved out. To the big city, NYC, the Big Apple. The city with the tastiest nickname in the entire country, where you can't distinguish between your appartment, the subway, and the public restrooms. I hated it at first sight. It was perfect.

(To be continued.)