“Assassinate Devon Woods.”

I was a Los Angeles cliché back then; a part-time waiter, part-time barista struggling to hold on to my looks as my young years slowly bled away and spending every minute of my free time auditioning for the part that would launch me to a red carpet. I found the red carpet, but not the usual way. I was closing up the coffee shop in early afternoon when a well-dressed man walked in. Not an actor… He waved me over to a small corner table. My pulse quickened. An agent? Casting director?

“Bernie, I’m here to offer you a deal,” he said, smiling. “Go ahead and write your wildest dream down on a sheet of paper and seal it in this.” He pushed a yellow envelope toward me. “I’ll make it happen. In return, you have to carry out what’s written here.” He pulled a green envelope from his jacket.

I hesitated briefly before scribbling my dreams of stardom and handing them over. I took the green envelope from him and tore it open:

Assassinate Devon Woods.

I could tell by the look in the man’s eyes this wasn’t the name of a film. “I can’t kill someone for you.”

“You can. You will, or your name will end up inside one of these.” He tapped the envelope and left.

That was ten years ago. My fantasies have all come true. Until yesterday, I’d never heard of Devon Woods. But you saw the news same as I did. Devon Woods is the man they say shot the President. The man who claims he got orders from a well-dressed man with a green envelope.

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