The morning alarm rang out.
Brad Pines, a mid-thirties newly elected member of the US Senate for the state of Georgia began his morning routine. He cleaned himself up, gave himself a little pep talk in the mirror, and debated for a little too long on which color tie he should wear.
His house is baren, but clean. No artwork, pictures, diplomas, memorabilia from memories past, or even much furniture. To call it minimalistic would be too generous; perhaps the classification of an essentialist would be more adapt.
Pines stood in front of the mirror holding a red tie in his right hand and a blue tie in his left. He begins his statistical deduction, "There will be 565 men and 378 women in the crowd today. There is a 60.2 percent favor with republican ideologies. Red and blue coloring will be too aggressive and risk alienating a percentage of my audience who perceives color coordination with stances on public issues."He pauses for a moment and looks over at a green tie."
Green – the color of finance, luxury, energy, and success. Potential risk of alienating the lower to middle class. Poverty rates are hitting a decade high in just the last year," he reasoned.
He glanced at an orange tie. "Orange – There are no political calculations with orange. Orange it is."
The politician knotted his orange tie around his neck and ambulated to the kitchen. On his countertop sits a single shot glass with a dark, oily, espresso-like liquid. Pines approached the glass and gave the concoction a quick gulp.
"Refreshing," he said to himself.
Pines approached a suitcase by the front door. He set it on a nearby entrance table and gave its contents a quick scan. Everything seems to be in place for the workday ahead. He grabbed his car keys and headed out the front door, ready to take on another day. Pines entered his vehicle and set the briefcase on the passenger seat. He turned the ignition of the sedan on, and eighties pop began to play on the radio station. He reversed out of the driveway and went down the neighborhood street.
After a short while, Pines exited the highway and began to enter downtown Atlanta. Skyscrapers and heavy traffic surrounded him; nearly overstimulating his senses. He hit a red light and came to a slow stop. Another vehicle pulled up beside him in the left turn lane. Pines turned and gave a signature wave to his fellow commuter. The driver gave no notice and turned left as their light changed to green.
"Up next we have a classic that topped the charts in 79'. Here's The Buggles on what exactly killed the radio star," said the radio station broadcaster.
Pines drove forward as "Video Killed the Radio Star" played through his speakers. All seemed normal and calm on this Monday morning, just as any other daily commute through the city. He approached another red light and came to a stop. Far off in the distance, a shine off of a reflection can be seen from the driver's side window. Pines noticed the slight shine off in the distance. His focus on the shine attempted to zoom in on a potential cause, but the change to a green light took his attention away. Pines slowly began to pull forward with a light press on the gas. Suddenly, without warning, the glass on the driver's side window shattered and a bullet made impact on the temple of Pines' head. A dark red substance splattered on the windshield and passenger window.
Pines' car pummeled forward and hit a lamp post. Nearby civilians that witnessed the event are slowly piecing together cognitively what they just saw. A brief panic broke out as some decided to scream and run, while others took out their cell phones to record and livestream what was happening. The rare bystander used their phone to actually dial 9-1-1. As the rush of hysteria continued on the city block, Pines' deactivated body lied motionless across the driver's seat and armrest.
The song continues to play on, "In my mind – and in my car. We can't rewind, we've gone too far—."
Across the stretch of urban jungle, on top of a nearby office building laid 32-year-old hitman Jin Shimada. His clothing is loose and relaxed; top button undone, open cuffed sleeves, unstraightened tie, and glasses that hang off the ridge of his nose. The smoking barrel from his sniper rifle served as a near identical reflection of the freshly lit cigarette on the cornice of the building.
Jin lifted the sniper rifle back up, in the background from his own portable radio, the same song that served as Pines' final acoustic waves continued to play on, "You are – a radio star (oh, a, oh)."
Jin reached for his earpiece, "Target's taken care of. Am I clear to leave?" He asked.
On the other end of the communication line, a voice rings out from Sebastian Wix. He's single, late twenties, flamboyant, and full of enough sass to be the stiletto in a room of flats.
"Come on Jin – Give our boys in blue a little bit of a head start," Wix replied.
Jin smirked as he began to pack up his brief case and took apart the sniper rifle. He exited the rooftop area of the building and worked his way back to his car in the building's underground parking garage. He opened the trunk of his vehicle; it looked innocent enough so that if anyone were to pass by, they wouldn't take notice. Jin surveyed around the garage to make sure no wondering eyes were closing in. Once he deemed it clear, he flipped a hidden switch, which rotated the bottom tray of the trunk to reveal a hidden armory of death. Jin placed the sniper brief case back to its assigned spot before notching the switch once again. He waltzed to the front of his vehicle with a little bit of a jig and slides into the driver's seat.
As the car turns on, the radio continues to sing out, "Video killed the radio star—."
Jin looked down at the radio and flipped through a montage of channels and music; eventually setting on a radio talk show of the daily news report. Surely his work would be broadcasted soon. Jin's car pulled out of the underground parking lot. Police cars drove by on the city block. Their sirens blared across the metropolitan morning haze. Jin worked his way to the highway ramp to head north, towards his home of Washington DC and away from the fresh, self-caused, chaos of Atlanta.