The Enigma’s Anomaly

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before but I know a guy. Who knows a guy. And so on.

Maybe there’s a tale to be told about the tragic death of a rising vlogger whose life was cut too short. Maybe part of the contract for her kill involved publicity. Maybe someone gave an exclusive about the whole predicament. Whatever way you look at it, I have connections.

For these circumstances, I need to get close. Close enough that he’ll let me be alone with him. Not close enough that anyone will pay any mind to just how close. No one can trace Gerard Way back to me. For any reason. But he does need to go, whatever means necessary.

The best one I can see with my circumstances is someone who will tail Gerard Way on a regular basis, at least for a little while. Someone disposable but someone who he’ll trust. Someone he can tell things to.

One-Stop magazine: the one and only stop you’ll need for your juicy celebrity gossip.

So now might be the time for me to cash in on that favor I was promised. I make a call. Some strings are pulled. Guess who is now assigned to write an article on New York’s hottest rising comic book artist? Technically, the writer is actually Frank Spade, real person, no relation to myself, but I gave him an exclusive so he’s throwing me a bone. I’ve never met nor do I care about Frank Spade, but he’s lending me his name so that I can meet “like, my all-time favorite comic book writer ever, oh my god.” He might put two and two together once a dead body shows up, but he didn’t bat an eyelash when I knew details about the first dead body so I doubt he'll say a thing. A good story is a good story.

Unfortunately, I’m actually going to have to write the damn article, but it’ll be exciting because I’m going to get the opportunity to write about his life and death. Obituary style. Hell, Frank Spade might get a promotion out of this. He’ll be the first on the scene with this article. Miraculous!

All I have to do is write a story for One-Stop magazine and I’ll get that dead body. I’ve never read the magazine myself, but they have a website which is down with the memes so the kids come flocking. I don’t give a fuck one way or another, I just have to commit a murder. Work stuff. I’m a normal guy who puts his shoes on one foot at a time. I don’t care what celebrity is having what other celebrity’s baby, I just have to put a bullet through some guy’s chest. I’m a millennial, shit happen.

My good pal Frank Spade calls whomever it concerns to set things up, which is how I find myself scheduled to meet with Gerard Way, a little over a week after the second assassination attempt. The second one didn’t make the papers, but I’m sure everyone of importance knows what happened. Except Frank Spade or it would’ve been in the papers.

It’s Monday when I make my way down to his office, because apparently comic book artists need offices. I’m not one to judge. The building is kind of small and only has two floors, but it’s a shared office with a few different companies in it. It’s a maze of a building, and it’s isn’t air conditioned, which I notice immediately. I have to go through one corridor in order to go up a particular elevator because the other elevator doesn’t take me to where I need to go. I follow the signs, and thank god they’re posted, because it takes me two wrong turns before I come across a private section of the building with only two other offices heading off of it. It’s not a large or interesting corner of the universe, just sort of plain and boring room shoved off in what looks like an old warehouse. There’s a woman sitting at a small desk, who is the first thing I see as soon as I enter the room. I make out the plaques on the two doors immediately, one says Way, and the other says Schechter.

“May I help you?” The woman at the desk says. She’s a mousy girl, somewhere in her early thirties, and she looks fidgety. I read her easily. She’s not new to this job, but she’s running low on steam. She’s a secretary, she expected to sleep with her boss but she hasn’t yet and that disappoints her. Either Way or Schechter is handsome enough for her to feel that way.

“Yeah, I’m um, Frank. I’m meant to write an article on-”

“Oh yes, I remember your people calling,” she says looking down at a datebook on her desk. There’s a small plaque on her desk as well which is a little more indecisive because all it says is ‘assistant.’ So she might not be new to the job, but she might be new to this particular gig if it doesn’t so much as say her name. Why does he even have an assistant? Kind of a swanky thing for a simple artist to have. Things are doing better for Gerard Way than I had thought. This is his own office even though he’s apart of a larger publishing company.

“He’s not in the office right now, but you can find him at the coffee shop around the corner.”

“Thank you,” I say warmly, and wave at her before walking back the way I came. The easiest way to be forgettable is to be kind but not loud about it. People remember a passing smile, but rarely the person it belongs to. I am used to being forgettable. Being invisible.

Outside, I feel the wind hit me quickly. It’s not cold, but the wind is still there, blowing city smells into my face, which are very poor and strong. They say this city is where dreams are made, but god if it doesn’t smell like shit. I see the coffee shop she was referring to as I walk down the road. Or at least, I think it’s the right one. This city has more coffee shops than I have hairs on my head. I walk over to the door and grab the handle.

Once I’m inside I scan the heads and faces of the people inside until I see a flamboyant red head in the corner. He’s nowhere near the window, so at least he’s learned something from the past few days. He was probably told to stay away from windows by the cops. It might not do him much good since he’s inviting an assassin to breakfast.

I walk over to him and stand beside his table tentatively. I’m a journalist. This is my job. I’m Frank Spade. I’m calm, cool, and collected. I’ve never murdered anyone. Assassin? I don’t know her.

“Excuse me, um, are you Gerard Way?” I ask as I undertake my new persona. I’m still Frank, but I’m not Frank. I’m Frank Spade, the kind of person who people think I am, and not the coldblooded murderer I really am.

“What? Oh yeah, I am. Why?” He asks, looking flustered, but I can tell by the state of his everything that flustered is his personality. His shirt is too big for him, and I’d be willing to bet his pants are too. His hair hasn’t seen a comb since before I dropped out of school. He allows me to approach him, looking at me with confusion. That might also be his natural state. He’s leaning over a sketchbook so it’s a working lunch, or brunch, or whatever it is when you spend your time at a coffee shop rather than in your office at ten in the morning. He looks far too comfortable at his table. Maybe he’s one of those people who does all their work at little coffee shops like this. He must have the worst coffee breath imaginable.

“Hey I’m Frank, it’s nice to meet you. I’m the guy writing that article on you for One-Stop magazine,” I say phishing for his understanding, and I feel myself easing into this Frank. I used to know him well. Cool, and collected Frank, who is personable and easy to talk to. He was fun. I miss him.

I notice quite quickly that Gerard looks amazing up close. I don’t even want to take my eyes off of him. I can’t quite decide if he’s cute or if he’s hot. Like if you’d want to light candles and do it in the bedroom or fuck him against a wall in a dodgy club’s bathroom. I’d be fine with both.
He has a soft, tentative face and, but his brilliant red hair adds bite to him. He’s a kind person, but he wants you to know he’s different. I can tell he’s run his hands through his hair several times in the past few minutes, which adds expression to what was already expressive. His eyes are what catch my attention the most, though, because I didn’t even know that brown came in that color. Hazel but deep. Coffee after creamer.

“Oh right, yeah. I nearly forgot about that with everything that’s been going on.” He definitely looks the disheveled part, as he runs his hands though his hair again. It looks like he might be trying to fix it. He fails miserably, as it gradually becomes worse and worse. He’s got nervous hands. He doesn’t know what to do with them.

“How do you mean?” I ask, even though I totally know what he’s referring to.

“Um, it’s nothing, never mind,” He says.

“Oh, I’m sorry, are you talking about that whole shooting debacle?” I ask. I’m playing a role here, and a person who is writing an article for a magazine, would probably be a person who reads the papers and what not. It’s not exactly top-secret information anyway. You don’t get shot at without people being like ‘hey, didn’t you get shot at?’

“You heard about that?”

“I’m a journalist,” I answer.

“Oh yeah, I guess you would know then,” He answers, then looks surprised for a quick second before saying, “Shit sorry! You can sit down. Sorry, I forgot to, um, yeah. Seat is open. For sitting… you know.” I chuckle to myself at his awkwardness, but I sit down across from him, feeling oddly charmed. He looks at me nervously. He is one awkward son of a bitch, managing to look baffled by my very presence. A person? Sitting at his table? Never!

Gerard’s fidgety and doesn’t seem to have a good control of his limbs. It makes him gangly in a dorky way. He must have some motor control though if he’s an artist. You need a steady hand for things like that. I need a steady hand too but it does nothing if you don’t have a good control on your adrenaline too.

I look at his hand. It’s got pencil or charcoal all over it along with some colors underneath his fingernails. His hand looks very strong, very capable. I wonder what an artists hand is like. He’s too attractive not to think about it.

“Well how about we start there? A shooting would make for an interesting story,” I say, hearing my own voice and it makes me want to punch myself. I sound dry and rude, like all I want to do is gossip. I’m a gossip columnist. What am I supposed to ask?

“Shootings actually,” he corrects. Aww, so cute. He has no clue he’s talking to the guy who tried to shoot him.

“There was more than one?” I ask, sounding shocked.

“Two, but the second one wasn’t made public for, I don’t know, reasons.”

“Oh god I’m so sorry to hear about that. I’m so glad you’re okay,” I smile and bit my lip.

He blushes. I made him blush. This will be an easy kill. “I-I am too. Being dead would, suck, real hard.”

“The world would lose out on such a great talent.” Throw kindling onto the fire. Let him eat up my words. Make him feel special.

Gerard looks down at his sketchpad and clears his throat. I can tell he’s trying to hide his face. He’s smiling. I smirk a little. Candy, meet baby. Couldn’t be easier.

“So, do they know who did it?” I ask, sounding interested, and this time it’s not a lie. Do they know? And if they do, how much do they know?

“They, uh, I mean, like they just said it’s like a guy who’s good at like shooting. ‘Cause he shot from really far? I don’t know, doesn’t seem like he is that good, since he missed twice.”

I clench my fist. You don’t know how hard it is to hit a moving target from a couple hundred yards away. You wouldn’t have even come close. I’m a great shot. I just missed. It happens sometimes.

“I hope they find him soon.”

“Me too,” Gerard nods. “But, I honestly don’t know much more about it than you do, if we’re being honest. I don’t know why anyone would want me dead. I’d rather just talk about my comic.”

“Of course, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to pry, sir. I’m just trying to write an interesting piece.”

“Do not call me sir, ugh. I can’t be more than like two years older than you?” he says as he grimaces, “It’s just Gerard.”

“Sorry,” I say and I smile. It’s convincing apparently because he smiles back and brushes a hair way from his face. That was really cute. He’s a fucking teddy bear. Little button nose to prove it. Who could want this guy dead? He’s adorable. But everyone has their skeletons. I look fine on the outside but I murder people. Appearances can be deceiving.

The way he bites his lip nervously makes me want to put his lips to better use, but I can’t really think about my target like that. Or at least, if I think about it too much it’ll probably make me feel like a monster. I know I’m a monster, but I don’t want to like this guy before I have to kill him. That’d suck.

“It’s Frank, right?”

“Yeah, that’s me.” I really hope I’m making a good first impression. I’m fairly sure I am. He’s blushing. He might like me. That’ll make things easier.

“Okay, Frank. Are you sure you want to write an article on me? Especially seeing as someone tried to kill me? Personally, I don’t want to get hurt, but I’d really really hate for someone else to get hurt because of me.”

I scramble for a good reason and settle on feeding him a sob story. I sigh and say, “well, um, to be completely honest with you, I’m not actually a journalist quite yet. Like, I’ve worked there for like two years now, but I’m not getting anywhere. I haven’t found a good story, or I haven’t written one well enough, and I’m just hoping, well, I just want to move forward. I had to twist some major legs to get to you, because you’re like, I mean you are a celebrity. I have this one chance, and I’m willing to risk it.”

“Okay... That’s a lot of weight on me to be interesting enough though, isn’t it?”

“I think you can handle it. Besides, I’m sure you’re super interesting,” I say with a smile. I need to stop flirting. This isn’t the task. The goal is to make him die, not to take him to bed.

Gerard blushes again. I want to take the poor kid out of his misery right here and now, but I can’t risk it at a coffee shop with witnesses who will attest to me being there. Unfortunately, the cost of messing up twice means that I have to get him alone.

“So what do you want to know then? Is it like a really long article or what?” He asks. “I only ask because I really am very boring.”

“I’m not sure yet. I don’t know where this article is going to take me but I was given a few pages so it’s fairly large,” I answer. I don’t want him to think I’m only interested in the shootings because that seems suspicious. I also need as much time as I can get.

“Okay, ask away. I’m not sure what I can tell say about myself, really. I don’t know who tried to shoot at me, or why. I’m scared as sin, but, like, life goes on.”

“That must be scary,” I nod sympathetically.

“Yeah, I mean, I don’t know what I did, but apparently it’s enough to kill over. I’m not really supposed to be leaving my apartment, but I have to get my work done and I can’t get it done in a stuffy place like that. I just want my life to be normal. Like, draw, drink coffee, be human.”

“Well it’s been a week, I’m sure you’re safe now,” I say, with the true tone of an optimist who doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about. Yeah, someone who shot at Gerard twice is going to just give up, because he missed. That’s definitely how these things work.

Gerard shrugs, “I don’t know. I’m not sure we should talk about this though, because I might get in trouble with the police.” Yeah me too. For different reasons.

“Oh right, sorry,” I say. I’m saying sorry too much. “Do you want to tell me about the comic book then?”

Asking him that sends him into talkative overdrive. I can barely keep up with him, but I have to take fucking notes or I won’t be able to write the damn article. He sure can talk. What was only a minute ago, a hesitant little nerd is now an impassioned professor giving a lecture. He’s so zealous about this thing, which I so admire. If I were so passionate about anything than I’d probably be as boisterous as him. Maybe I wouldn’t be where I am today.

The thing I pick up on most is that he tends to talk with his hands. I knew he had nervous hands. He makes gestures for everything, and the fact that he’s already got an awkward control on his body makes it a tad bit amusing. With the amount of talking he does with his hands, I’m pretty sure he’s not the straightest guy in the world. That, and he was definitely blushing when I flirted.

He talks about who some of the characters are based on and I start to wish I’d read the damn thing, but I nod along and he doesn’t seem to notice how lost I am. The villain is based on some corporate businessman, and the city it all takes place in is based on some city in New Jersey. He looks animated while he talks. His personality is as fiery as his hair would suggest. What a shame it will be to eliminate him.

“Oh god I’m ranting. I’m so sorry,” he says, and he looks completely embarrassed by how much he’s been talking. He brings his hands to his face and tries to rub at his temples.

“Well the point of my talking with you is to get information for the article,” I say cheekily.

“God, you’re right. I must sound like a total idiot to you though,” Gerard says and he brushes another strand of hair out of his face. I don’t know if I want to hug him or what.

“I think it’s kind of cute how passionate you are.” Oh shit, I just flirted again. Stop doing that, Frank! I can’t help but to wonder what else he’s passionate about, but I steer my mind away from that treacherous thought. I really need to get laid if I’m actually thinking about a soon-to-be-dead guy like this.

“So when is this article thing due?” Gerard asks.

“You make it sound like a homework assignment,” I joke. “I have about a month to finish it since the new issue just came out a few days ago. So if it’s okay, I’d like to follow you around for a week or two?”

“Oh god, you’re going to be bored out of your mind,” Gerard says, “but if it’s what you need, than I suppose that’s fine. As long as I can still get some work done.” He gestures to his sketchbook and I nod.

“Yeah, of course, I wouldn’t want to stop you from your genius,” I answer and I bite my lip. My lip ring clicks between my teeth and I feel like a kid, sitting here ogling at this hot dork. Oh, to be sixteen again. No assassinations to commit. Just trying to get laid. Comic books. Good times.

“So I guess we’ll be spending a lot of time together, I’m glad you’re not a jerk then,” Gerard says and then turns a pink color because of what he said. He has no idea.

I’ve almost never made contact with someone I was assigned to kill before, and certainly never had a conversation this long. I hope I can take him down soon so that I don’t develop a friendship or anything. That would suck. I’d get over it obviously, but I really don’t want to have to see the look on his face when he realizes I’m the one trying to kill him.

I already don’t like imagining him finding out. He’ll only ever find out in his last few seconds of life, if he even does find out, but it’s a sad prospect. It might be best to do it quick and painless, with his back turned to me so that he never has time to figure out it was me.

I’m too empathetic for this undercover business. I do not want to have to do this again. I wouldn’t last as a private investigator or any of that shit. How do they dedicate themselves to this?

It becomes clear to me after a few more minutes with him that I would totally ask him out if the circumstances were different. No word on whether he’d say yes, but he is easily embarrassed by any compliments I give him and there’s the whole hand gesture thing. Yeah, he’d probably say yes, but I’m not going to think about that, or what that implies.

I hate that he’s making me laugh. This shit is stupid, I have to put these ideas to rest. I am so not meant for undercover work, I get attached too easily! He’s distracting me with his words and faces and everything.

Such a soft face. He loves comics so much. He just wants to talk about them, not even his own necessarily. He’ll talk about any comics. Batman. The X-Men. He loves superhero teams. He loves the dark side of the comics. He tried to incorporate that grittiness into his own comics, while still keeping them lively.

I nod along. I’m a journalist. I can do this. Journalists don’t sleep with the people they’re interviewing. Assassins don’t either. You just need to kill him. Just make him dead.

So not meant for undercover work.