Take the 'Carolina Lunch' for example. Each day, the median age of the clientele becomes one day older. Each day, someone decides they can get a hot breakfast quicker at Hardee's. Each day, the owner gets closer to the day she'll no longer be able to keep the diner up. The net effect is the 'Carolina Lunch' is bleeding to death.

In enters the main character, the protagonist, one Gendo Summers wearing a dark trench coat, brown fedora, thick rimmed glasses with yellow lenses, brown corduroy pants, a white button up shirt, and gun holster under left shoulder. He sits down at a table across from one Calvin Paulson. Paulson is dressed similar in flair, but with different specifics. Sport coat not trench coat. Bowler not fedora. Pink not yellow. He grins.

"So, when is it going down?"

"Ten minutes, we exit the building walk a block, climb stairs, knock on door, and at that instant, you make consider it down."

The grin on Paulson's face grows.

"Cool."

He's excited. This job isn't his first, but it's his first with Gendo. Gendo's reputation precedes him. He's good, Calvin can already tell.

"Let me ask you something Paulson."

"Go for it."

"What do you consider to be the meaning of your life?"

Paulson blinked.

"… I don't know."

"You don't know? Then I want you to walk outside, get in the car and wait for me there."

"What! I know what I'm doing, I've done plenty of hits!"

"I know, that's why I asked for you, but if you don't feel your life's meaning then you don't have a reason to live and that make you vulnerable and I don't want someone vulnerable with me on a hit."

"Vulnerable? How am I vulnerable!?"

"That's what I was about to tell you!" Gendo took a long sip of his coffee, more like a gulp really. The silence restored civility to their subsequent tone of voice.

"You see, when the day comes that you get shot in the gut, the last thing you'll need to be doing is asking, 'Have I wasted my life?' Instead, you need to cap that bastard in the head. Trouble is you don't know if you're wasting your life if you have no purpose."

"OK, so what's your purpose for existing?"

"No, it doesn't work like that. I can't tell now or you'll just pretend to agree and copy me instead of deciding for yourself. And that is the worst thing, because it won't be real to you unless you arrive at a conclusion on your own."

With that Gendo picked up his coffee cup and took another long drink. Then he put down the mug and said, "All right. I'll let you come this time anyway so you can do some thinkin', but we're gonna play it real cool, so no one gets shot when he ain't ready. "

He dropped a handful of coins on the table, picked up his hat, and walked over to pay his tab.

"That's a nice hat, Mr. Summers."

"Killahs gotta wear something."

"You wanna trade?"

"Nah, my old man gave me this hat before he died. Funny story, I'll tell you about it later."

"Cool. OK, let's do it."

They walked out the door and strutted down the street. Walking up to the door, Calvin looked at his watch, while Gendo knocked on the door.

"Wow," Paulson thought, "right on the dot."

"Hello," answered a little nebbish man. Gendo and Calvin stepped around him and into the room.

"We've been sent here to escort one Mr. Matthew Phillips to see our mutual employer," Gendo deadpanned.

"He's… He's not here," said the nebbish, one Eric Smith.

"We have reason to believe he is, and it would be in your best interests to help us."

With that Gendo smoothly removed his gun, a .45 caliber Glock from its holster. Quietly, the nebbish pointed at a closet door, as beads of sweat gathered on his forehead. Gendo smiles, and he and Paulson stand on either side of the door. Silently, they count to three then shoot the lock off and kick the door open. A handsome guy dressed in leather by the name of Matthew Phillips is inside.

Phillips screams then takes a shot, hitting Gendo's right shoulder. Without skipping a beat, Gendo turns Phillips' skull into a deconstructivist, postmodern look at the repression by fascist governments.

"S---, you okay?" asks Paulson.

"Yeah, but that moron never heard of a silencer… I mean, you can make one yourself by drilling holes into the barrel… We'd better move."

They grabbed Eric Smith, who had been doing his best to remain unnoticed in the corner, by the collar and strode out the door.

"Don't worry, that diner we were at is a safe-house. We can crash there for a little while."