A Hit Below the Belt!

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Alan Rothschild had a job to do in Washington of the DC. Yeah, that Washington, the famous Washington. Not the other one with Seattle nestled in it. Anyway, Alan felt this particular job wasn't all that bad. Sure, he'll get arrested. Hell, he'll probably die on the spot, but what does it matter? A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, especially when family is involved. Alan Rothschild, not his name actually, was doing a moderate sixty decelerating to fifty has he approached Pennsylvania Avenue. He whistled a Stevie Wonder song. He wasn't a Stevie Wonder fan though. Alan Made-up-Name, he cracked at that one. Did him some good too. Got his nerves down to little below uncomfortable. Anyway, Alan Made-up-Name was thinking what dumb fucks the Americans are. Here he is driving dangerously close to the White House with a rocket launcher in his trunk and whistling good old Stevie Wonder, unchallenged . Oh well, Alan what's-his-name-again shrugged mentally. He eased the car- a whinning Jaguar- to a curb across from the White House. He hurriedly got out of the car. Speed matters now. He was in the hot zone. Hell, he was actually sweating in the freaking snow. That helped, the snow that is. Oh did I forget to mention the snow? My bad. Alan smiled at that. It was part of the plan actually. Alan Rothschild, not his actual name (don't forget that), picked up the launcher, set the target and squeezed the trigger. The rocket went flying. The next moment was chaotic. Cars honked, explosion in the air, Secret Service agents swarming him. It was all a blur to him.

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