Alexander Vartanian - D2

I sit uncomfortably in the back of a police cruiser, hands handcuffed behind my back. I'm guessing it's 10ish at night. This time I was arrested on multiple counts of First Degree Murder, a few breaking and enterings, resisting arrest, assaulting an officer, and just about anything else you could name that falls under a felony charge.

	I'm going by the name Charles Dunum right now, but my original name is Alexander Vartanian. I stand at 5 feet 7 inches with short brown hair, brown eyes. Yeah, I know, almost shockingly average, right? That's the point, it makes my job a lot easier.  What's my job, you ask? Well, I fix problems. My clients come to me with the problem. A  person, some information, a place, a thing, whatever it is, it doesn't matter. I then get my instructions on what to do with the 'problem' and follow those instructions.

	So, if I'm really that bad, why'd I give you all of this information? Because, this disguise is blown, done, doesn't matter. All of the features I just told you will have changed by sunrise tomorrow. I hear a loud beep. Finally, took them long enough. I roll out of my seat and onto the floor, getting as low and small a target as possible. Within a second the car is being riddled with gun fire, the sound of shattering glass, gunfire, and screams of pain a symphony I'm quite used to hearing. The gunfire stops and the car spins wildly before hitting a curb and rolling over twice, before stopping on it's roof.

	I take a quick look at what happened and my current state. The car is utterly destroyed, and the officer that was driving is completely dead and hole-filled. Looking over myself I see that a bullet grazed my shoulder, my head is bleeding at the top, and I'm covered in bruises and cuts. Probably also have at least one cracked rib. I roll over on to my back and give myself a second to recuperate.

	After a minute's rest, I give the destroyed and crumpled door that's in front of my feet a couple of good kicks. After a few attempts, the door pops open and I climb out with practiced skill, barely hampered by my hands being in handcuffs behind my back. I walk over to the driver's door, which is already opened, the officer hanging out of it. After a minute or so of attempting, I grab the key off of his belt and undo the handcuffs, setting both on the curb for a moment. I walk across the street to a nearby car and open the unlocked trunk to find a man of similar description to mine inside with his mouth taped shut and his hands handcuffed behind his back.

	I grab the man by the back of the neck and drag him out of the trunk. He kicks and tries to yell, but it does nothing but annoy me. I slam him down on the curb and grab the silenced and highly illegal, military grade pistol that was stashed in a hidden compartment of the trunk. I turn around to the new Charles Dunham hit him in hard in the head with the gun, knocking him cold in one swing. I shut the trunk and continue on with my job. I drag him with my right arm and hold the gun in my left hand, taking him back across the street  to the police car. I toss him in the back, rip the tape off his mouth and shoot him 9 times, before hearing the soft click of an empty gun. Past killing and planting the poor fool, everything was done for me. I walk back to the car that was left for me and toss the gun into the passenger seat before sitting down at the wheel.

	A small buzz comes from the dashboard. A burner phone. The text it just got reads only a name with a picture attached. Dameon Maroe. I bash the phone several times with the gun and toss both in the glove box. I reach under my seat and pull out the manila folder. They left my instructions, payment, and a new identity. I put the folder back and hit the gas, leaving the scene in my rear-view mirror. Out in a little under two minutes. Not bad, given the circumstances.

	See, my job is to fix problems. Luckily for me, I'm really good at it.