The Day-Late Assassin surveyed the car park, took his bearings by consulting with his map and made his way to the hidden vantage point behind the fence at the edge of the disused storage depot. Once there, he assembled the deadly tools of his solitary, amoral trade and waited.
Checking his watch, he calculated that he had, once again, cut it fine: only eight minutes to go. That couldn’t be right, surely? Where were the crowds? Where was the marching band? Where was the cavalcade?
The Day-Late Assassin checked his watch again: seven minutes. Catching sight of the date, the Day-Late Assassin let out a weary sigh.