So I wrote this at about 15, was in Algebra, probably should have been paying attention (maybe then, I'd have chosen a sensible major like computer science or something else boring/lucrative). I had just seen Cowboy Bebop for the first time, and literally all I could think about were coolio jazz-punk influenced stylish bounty hunters and assassins. I was as a whole first getting into noir. I'd been writing vignettes and such long before this one, but I think this is the first writing of mine I'm comfortable sharing. Figured I'd post it here not only as a historical reference (although it is nice to have this in more places than just google drive), but also to help chart my progress as a writer, this story acting as a sort of baseline. As for the story itself, it's only a fragment. I was beginning to experiment with things like internal dialogue, and Karma here is probably one of my more favorite characters of that era of my writing. So, here it is, the cheesy neo-noir, anime-inspired, titleless ramblings of a bored kid in math. Don't worry, the main character falls on his ass at one point.

Karma Kaplan was a paid assassin.The kind that mobs throw around like a ball on a beer pong table. They treated him like crap, and respected his opinions even less. However, price-wise, this was quite the contrary. For you see, Karma had gotten quite a name for himself. A sort of twisted underdog tale amongst his clients. He grew up in slums, passed from family member to family member. His parents were drug addicts. Cast out by society and treated with an embrace about as tender as sandpaper. The whole sad story for sure. They paid heavy premiums for his almost distinctive, swift, traceless style, and if you had him on your bounty, it was practically a death sentence.  

In truth, this job made him sick. Not the thought of killing these bountyhead bozos, in fact most of the time, they filled him with disgust moreso. No, he really had the contempt for the people hiring him. They were the people that came to him, took him in, fed him and brought him a “decent” living, but yet he couldn’t help but hate them. These guys were for sure no saints, but they weren’t terrible to him. Karma supposed that it was the lack of a clear motif behind them. They were like icy cobras waiting for him to let his guard down. Maybe all they wanted was his services, he could live with that, but it was a bit of an insult that they tried to make him feel like family. These guys fed him, feignedly asked him about his life, and then set him aside until he was needed. This was what really pissed Karma off. He felt a sharp poking sensation on his knuckles, and snapped back to reality. The wind blowing on his face, and his fist through a patch of -hopefully- drywall. Fiberglass is never fun to deal with, especially on a mission.

Right, right, the mission. He mused over the assignment details with a pained expression on his face, now noticing the pinkish foam lamentably escaping the new hole in the wall. Karma removed his circular shades to attend to his fresh wounds. Why was he even wearing these?! It was dark enough as it is, and he certainly wasn’t getting any night vision. Dressing up as action heroes and-“FUCK! wait, the guy, the guy! Dammit!” Karma further groaned as he realized his payday was slipping away. It was time for some recon. Being so lost in thought was never good on an assignment. “There you are…” Karma muttered to himself as he caught the man with his binoculars. He set up some weapons, assembling a few nozzles onto guns, and branded a knife. Karma quietly made his way down, and hopped off a balcony. He figured it was about a story above the guy, not a problem at all.

He was sorely mistaken. Karma hit the ground with a loud thud, a shockwave of pain like he’d never felt before running up his body. He cried out in surprise and agony, realizing the horrendous misjudgement he’d made. Shaken up, he turned around and saw the man running away from him. For some reason though, Karma just couldn’t find the motivation to chase this guy. Maybe it was some fucked up bloodlust, or the sense of justice prevailing, but he usually had a strong desire to see these jobs through to the very end. But tonight, something was bothering him. He strolled back to his Jeep, no music, just turned on the light and began packing up. He took off his gear, then put away his weapons, then took out the box of DIY punk rock cassettes spoon fed to him almost daily by his buddy Anthony. He mused over the comical titles, reflecting on the days when he was a slightly younger hellraiser. He got into the front seat, and adjusted the mirrors, proverbial tail still between his legs.

Karma Kaplan was a young man just shy of 24. He had dark brown hair, appearing black to those uninformed. He had a deep blue t-shirt, red shorts and a long black jacket. It extended far beyond his knees, and a little further past his hands than it should be. His face was round-ish, with a stubbly beard growing in slowly but surely. Karma shifted his truck into gear, and began his ride back to HQ. 

“What? You let ‘im get away? Dammit! Dammit all! When I get my hands on ‘im, that son of a bitch will never-” The short, stocky man paused as he realised Karma was watching his gradually unfolding tyraid. Karma was grinning, head tilted like a confused puppy. He was doing his best to hold back bursting into laughter. Leo was never one to put much into action, especially not hurting people, and now? Now he was going to make sure ‘that son of a bitch never…’? “HAHAHAHAHAHAA!” Karma laughed out loud against his better judgement. On top of that, Leo was the least muscular fat guy in the room. Karma supposed if he really wanted to, Leo could smother the guy to death. “So, what’s your plan, Leo? And say, what’d this guy do to you anyway. He sure did something shitty to get a guy like you vengeful!”

“That he is you, kid. You’ve been sloppy lately…