Something was in the air that day. It was the smell of gravy. Strong, poweful gravy. The gravy of death. I, a Guild of the Assassin's member, BA Hons, moved under the cover of dark. I removed the duvet briefly on the corner of St Giles because it was getting warm and sticky, before moving on. I became suddenly aware that a joke can be overused, and I fought to control my panic. Using guile (and chun-li), I dodged past the guards of the mighty fortress of St John. One such guard was persuaded to dispatch information about the location of the target using a single spork. His family have been informed.

From there progress was easy. Climbing across the rooftops, jumping from ledge to ledge, down chimneys and through half open windows, the I nimbly moved on without opposition. From the ground, guile and chun-li wondered why I didnt just use the door like everyone else. In the distance, a herd of cattle broke free from the milking machine and run rampant over the farm-hands, but this does not concern our story.

Using my finely tuned lock pick skills, I broke the window and climbed in, mumbling something unheard of, like, "bugger, thats my thumb". With the target reached, the only thing left was the kill. The door opened, and for a brief second, the victim expressed a look, half of terror, half of confusion, half of lust. But I would not be swayed. The dagger plunged deep into the chest of the girl, and she was dead. But wait, she uses her last energy to speak. "Phl" she says. Ok, now she's dead.

With a heavy heart, two lamp chops and a pack of sausages, I left the awful place. The moment of the first kill was over, and the only place now was to look to the future. Which, as it turned out, was a mistake, because had I looked to the left, I would have noticed the herd of cattle ploughing towards me and avoided a lengthy stay at the local infirmary.

To be continued...