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Mr. Miyazaki was an odd and interesting man. He liked to rent books from his local library and never return them, instead reading in his den while listening to the radio give a low, static-y hum. It was calming to him, it sounded like the rain. Mr. Miyazaki rarely had visitors, and that was just the way he liked it. Wearing sunglasses inside and sitting in his favorite chair (it was a small, wooden stool) in his basement, he rolled fresh cigarettes with American dollar bills. He blamed America for the world’s problems, and burned their currency in between his lips in protest.

One year ago, Mr. Miyazaki won the local lottery in his town and was awarded a grand sum of $25,000. The first thing Mr. Miyazaki did with his money was hire an assassin to kill the drunk driver that murdered his wife, Kozue, as they were walking home together from seeing a play in the theatre. The car jumped the curb and pinned Kozue to a brick wall, just missing Miyazaki. The driver managed to scramble out of the car, running away as Mr. Miyazaki tended to his wife’s mangled and crushed body. There was nothing he could do but sit there, stone faced, as the police covered Kozue with a garbage bag and carried her away.

The assassin had done his job, spearing the drunk driver while he was home playing with his children, or so he thought. The assassin was sloppy. He had missed the correct house by one number, and instead had killed the leader of a Japanese street gang. The silence in Mr. Miyazaki’s house was suddenly disturbed. Five men stormed into his basement, with all of their guns pointed at his face. He looked up from his desk, and continued to roll his dollar-bill cigarette. He said nothing, cracking a slight smile as if he were expecting them. Under the table, Mr. Miyazaki’s foot pushed and made a slight click. The men disappeared, and Miyazaki glanced at the crossed out names on his piece of paper.

Story by Evan

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