“At first it was a nasty kind of business, I had to get them unconscious and then pour the sand bags down their throats. It was sloppy, it was primitive, and sometimes they would gag themselves awake so I had to hold them still until they asphyxiated. Most of the men stopped talking to me so much; they feared me, respected me, or maybe were just too disgusted by my actions and me. That was fine though, the reputation I mean; Uncle Snake liked it, I was his loyal pawn so my reputation and I was his to control, his to use.

[Hello there! Sorry to interrupt but you are actually reading part TWO of this story! Here's part one for you, and I promise not to interrupt again: http://www.furaffinity.net/view/11993676/ well thanks for reading! Comments loved (even critique!).]
I was sent on more than a few missions to assassinate snitches and traitors with a little posy of goons (I was too valuable to lose to some security force or surprise gun, but I suspect that Uncle Snake just said that because he wasn’t yet sure of my ability to fend for myself, perhaps my loyalty too), and they all went off virtually without a hitch. Eventually I was sent off alone, and was thrilled that I had been trusted with it, and it all went great, at least for a while: I got to the target’s home while they slept and beat them so they stayed asleep, then poured the sand down their throat and was on my way. It got “too neat” after a while once I was practiced, Uncle Snake wanted it to still look brutal and savage, so if there wasn’t a struggle I would push some things over, beat on the target’s body for some bruises, make the whole thing look messy.

This stopped when I was sent to take out a rhino, a body building, steroid abusing, tipped off and paranoid, rhino. I don’t have to go into the details really, but it got messy in the bad way. Cops got called by the neighbors and they had to shoot the monolithic thing before it killed me. A few dirty cops got me off free, but Uncle Snake had a talk with me. Said it was getting too risky, too messy this time (I mean, I got shot at once but it only really glazed me so my shell stopped the bullet, and I was fast enough to make sure he didn’t miss, but this time was too much, even I could tell that), but that was fine: “Because you really helped me out, really got a name, for both of us. Now we want to make a name that’s respectable, zero mess, professional-like.”

Maybe it was so I wouldn’t be embarrassed for failing an assignment and having the assignments stopped because of it, maybe it was true and this was a good place to make it “professional”, or maybe it was both, but either way the “Beat-N-Sand” routine came to a close. What he gave me next was gas. Knocked you out like you’re about to get heart surgery. A gas mask and a gas can, big thing, weighed about twenty five pounds but it was worth it. Everything after that went smooth as butter; not one hitch, zero mess, impossible to be traced… but you already know that.”

Detective Cooper stood there for a few moments after reading that last sentence of the note. A shiver traveled up his spine and he looked around the dark windows, the silent office with its little purr of vents. He had been wondering why these notes were written, but he began to sense something far more sinister than just an especially notorious hit man. A few weeks ago, before the first note was found, he had taken down a close ally of this “Uncle Snake” and this latest note had been found in the sand packed throat of detective Konowal… the man who had helped Cooper take down this ally.

Detective Cooper wasn’t quite sure who was the hunter, and who was the hunted was anymore.