Bob the monkey leaped across the mahogany rafters of the dilapidated church in the darkness of a new moon.  At 3:00 AM in the morning, he was all alone, yet still remained silent.  He knew not why, possibly an unkempt paranoia, bred from the all the twisted souls ravaged by his own paws.  He knew someone wanted him dead, but that was no worry about that; being wanted dead and in danger of it are two very different things indeed.  Once he had found a suitable position among the rafters, he waited.  And waited.  And waited hours more.  Through all the masses held throughout the day, he just balanced precariously on a beam at the corner of the building; he had no worry of being seen.  What would seem like eras for most others, he just stood through, for it was only a normal day in the life of the assassin.
	When the sun began to descend from its lofty perch in the sky, Bob did the same.  His target this time was a dog, a priest, named Arthur.  What Bob’s client had so much against this priest was not pondered; he was but a means to an end, of which was lesser than him.  This dog was clad in a fairly standard priest outfit.  The priest looked his direction when he landed, but he did not have to worry.  The priest was the only one in the church, and was quite blind from the looks of it.  He crawled among the pews, clutching his well-used dagger in his left hand, a thick cloth in his right.  Sneaking up on the old dog was not a problem, and it took only a quick swipe of the dagger to fell the priest; not a sound came from his mouth.  Bob smirked.  He would have no trouble leaving town and going to his informative this time; for the next, he was not so sure.
***
	As a wealthy assassin, Bob had a private jet and was trained in flying, which was quite useful in his line of business.  One would have to ponder its necessity, if his informant, Phil the giraffe, was not stationed in Rome.  After a casual flight over, he landed on Phil’s grand estate.  Bob hopped out of his jet with his briefcase, and was quickly greeted by his comrade.
	“Ciao, Bob!  Welcome back to Rome!” said Phil ecstatically.
	“Phil, we need to talk,” replied Bob.
	“What for?  I assume you’ve been successful as ever, my friend.”
	“I…”  He paced around a bit, worried.  “I fear They have sent someone to kill me, after all this time.”
	“My, my, I think you just need some sleep, my friend.  Please, come inside.”
	Phil brought the uneasy assassin into his guest lodge.  It was getting dark, so Bob went straight to the bed, and Phil left the room.
	“Your time will come soon indeed, assassin.  It will come soon.”
***
	Bob awoke to a blazing spear of summer sunlight upon his brow.  He grunted, and pulled himself out of the bed.  Once he had gotten dressed, he left the room; Phil was waiting to greet him.
	“Why, I hope you slept well, my friend,” Phil chimed.
	“Well enough to do my job,” Bob replied grumpily.
	“But of course.  For now, I’d like to take a look at what’s inside that briefcase.”
	“Not yet, my friend,” Bob said with a sarcastic smirk across his face.
	Phil was clearly not amused.
	“I think I’ll fetch the papers myself,” Bob said after a harrowing staredown.
	He went back into his room and locked the door behind him.  As he was about to open the briefcase, the hair stood up on the back of his neck.  He turned around slowly, to be greeted by a security camera.  He quickly wrapped a towel around it, and examined the room for more.  Finding none, he opened the briefcase, removed the files for his next targets (save one, which he left in the briefcase for a later date), closed it, picked it up, unwrapped the towel, and left the room.  Phil was waiting outside impatiently, tapping his hoof.  Bob plopped the files into Phil’s outstretched arms, which were hastily opened up.
	Phil muttered quietly to himself for half a minute or so, and then put away the files in his coat and left, beckoning Bob to follow.  He obeyed, as to not further irritate the giraffe who could effortlessly lead him into a trap; luckily, Phil would be happy as long as he received payment.  Phil brought the two of them into the foyer, in which he stopped and turned to Bob.
	“Bob, you’re going to have to give me that briefcase now,” he stated uneasily.
	“Quite honestly, I think not.”
	This got Phil past his breaking point.  Frustrated beyond all expression, he himself wrestled the briefcase from Bob.  Upon finding that the briefcase was unlocked, he opened it without delay.  When he saw what was inside, he looked up only to find Bob gone.
	He looked around, left and right and up and down, finding nothing.  He looked more and more hastily, knowing, feeling, that Bob was in this very room with him.  He