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“Please, you can have anything you
want —” The first hint of a whine was
creeping into his voice. I found it grating.
“Don’t beg. I told you this was coming,
didn’t I?” I smiled. “Gule, gule. You said it
yourself.”
I moved toward him. To my amaze-
ment, tears started rolling down his pasty
cheeks.
“Oh God, no — no —” He curled into a
ball, hands over his head. Unbelievable.
There he was on the floor, whimpering
and pleading for his life, this man whose
merest word had brought death to so
many others in the past. I was filled with
profound loathing for this coward
grovelling at my feet.
He deserved no mercy. None at all.
I holstered my gun, and pulled out my
Gurkha knife.
“Gule, gule,” I whispered, in response
to his every pathetic scream.
I had left the videotape in the machine,
along with a note to turn it on. The next
morning I got up early, so I wouldn’t miss
anything. I fixed my breakfast as I
listened to the line splicer’s amplified
signal. About nine o’clock, I heard the
door to McDonald’s office swing open, a
woman’s scream, a thud. I listened to the
commotion, the frantic shouting, a call to
the police, the rustle of a note being read,
the click of the VCR turning on. The
resulting screams. The sounds of people
retching.
I couldn’t help but smile as I hung up
the phone.
The next day, the story ran not only in
the local papers, but in the national
media as well. Though I hadn’t intended
it, I’d sealed my fate in that one video-
taped action. I became a symbol, almost
an icon, the unidentified enforcer com-
mitting unspeakable acts, whispering
“Gule, gule.” Someone used the phrase to
identify me in an article, and the name
held over the years, as did my trademark.
The gun for the brave man, the knife for
the coward. Such terrorism proved most
effective throughout my career.
And now, I remain Gule Gule, retired,
but ever able to spring once again into
action should the need arise. I caution
those corporations who would cheat the
mercenaries who shed blood in their
service — take care.
The payment may be dearer than you
ever dreamed.
SUDDEN DEATH •
July 2011
33
“Gule, gule,” I whispered, in
response to his every pathetic
scream.
WE KNOW
WHO YOU ARE!
Sure, you think you’ve gotten
away with cheating on your
taxes. No one’s come around.
What the hell — right?
We at the IRS know who you
are. Every one of you. We
know where you live — and
where your kids hang out, too.