text: I maneuver my way around the countertop, scouring its marble surface for a very basic thing, a form of tea. I stop and turn, almost knocking over a dish rack and busting all of the plates and cups suspended and drying. I panic and dash forwards and catch the collapsing rack. It’s around five o’clock in the morning and, to clarify, I am not a morning person. And so this, this half asleep, confused, and groggy state; it’s normal for me this early in the morning. But then again, that's only because I haven’t had my tea yet. Some prefer the ugly cousin to Tea, coffee. And well, let's just say coffee is the horrid combination of acidic mud water that is quite abrasive to my pallet. Which leaves me really only one choice to lock down my caffeine addiction. Black tea. I carefully search cabinet after cabinet, drawer after drawer, but to no avail. I look under and over, down and up, side to side, until I come upon a small, very expensive looking, box of tea. You would never guess where it ended up residing. Inside of the fridge. Along with a bunch of coffee packets of a different variety laying on their sides. The box, full black in color, had a golden trim along the top and bottom. I'm quite impartial towards brands when I’m like this, as I’m not really thinking about it at the moment. All I needed to know was that the box was labeled to my desire. And low and behold, it was. “How about that..” I whisper beneath my breath before looking back at the countless open cabinets and drawers. With a hum of relief sounding in my mind, I slowly close each door and, while I'm at it, retrieve a small kettle from the pots and pans cabinet. Once I finish cleaning up my mess, I prepare the kettle and set it down on the stove to heat. I also set aside a cup; a decently sized mug that had the words “1’st Class Dad!” on the front. I let a small smirk grow at the edge of my mouth and lean against the counter. I have two sons and a daughter, all three the light of my life. All three are adorable in their own way and make it very hard to leave in the morning. Cassy with her adorable puppy dog eyes and Tommy and Yale with their abnormal stubbornness; something they all definitely get from their mother. But, at this early hour, they are fast asleep and I'm usually gone before anyone’s the wiser. It’s better that way. Less difficult that way for me to go to work. If I had it my way I’d never leave and spend all the time I have with my family. But, we live in a society, right? Then, there’s my beautiful wife who’s the most open minded and accepting person in the world; so, of course I fell for her immediately. Her name’s Marie and she was always like that, and that, at least for me, is the hardest part about going to work. Leaving that bed, ooh man is it rough. Then again, bills need to be paid. And there is no shortage of work to be done. I glance upwards at the beginnings of the early morning dawn through a nearby window. It’s one hell of a sight to see. The window, all foggy from the cold and fractile air, overlooked the city; New York City, for anyone who may be wondering. To see the bustling city from a penthouse view puts a lot into perspective for how small everyone is. From up there, everyone was about the size of a coin, maybe even an ant. The world is a vast and humongous place, and even yet, sometimes people get so enveloped in themselves that they lose sight of that. Every now and then I just sit and contemplate, exactly like this. And almost every time, like the crack of a bell, the tea kettle sounds and snaps me out of it. The whistle of the kettle shot steam from its spout with a violent rattle. I cut the heat as quickly as I could to prevent any more noise and remove it from the stove. I am always careful to grasp the handle with a cloth ever since I burned my hand so badly last time. I pour the hot water into the mug and plop a teabag in. Watching the tea bag as it bobbed and floated effortlessly in the burning hot water is always satisfying to me. The way the colors of the leaves bled into the water and stained it a nice deep brown. I’ve always found it somewhat therapeutic and relaxing to make tea. It’s like a moment of meditation that keeps me calm both during and after the process. That, and if I don’t have my tea in the morning I’ll lose my freaking marbles. But that outcome I reserve for Mondays, mostly. I rinse the kettle and wipe down the counter and cabinets with a sterilizing cloth while I wait for the tea to finish steeping. I’d been quite wreckless with the mess I made while searching. Again, another exhibit as to why I need caffeine to function properly. I polish the counter to be how it was when I walked in and toss the rag into the trash. With a quick motion, I grasp my tea and head over to the couch in the living room of the penthouse. On the coffee table my black suitcase sat lying open with all of my various equipment sitting neat and orderly. If I didn’t organize my work stuff, I would probably panic when it came down to it. But, that is again, a hypothetical. Everything in my life is neat and orderly because I make it so. I place down the cup after taking a sip and peer into my briefcase once more. Just to be sure, I account for everything. First my Beretta M9A3, clean and polished; sitting snugly in its felt mold. My personal favorite and you can’t really go wrong with it. Second, my silencer. A basic straight-through silencer, perfect for my needs. Third, the five clips of ammunition as well as extra bullets in case of emergency. These, well, they are self explanatory. And my fourth and final item on the list, the gas mask. Everything is here and where it is supposed to be. A deep breath fills my lungs and a warm comfort washes over me. I sip my tea once more and then place the cup back down. I glance at the time: 5:25 AM. “With five minutes to spare.” I clear my throat and slide a manilla folder from the seam of my briefcase. One big red word read “Classified” across the top as I part it open. Inside was a picture of a man with light brown hair and a gleam in his eye. All things considered, I would never pick him out to be a domestic abuser. Nor someone who would do the countless horrid things listed in his file. But then again, that's the surprise of this job. You never know who’s next in line. I glance upwards to the man tied down to his own chair and gagged with the rag I found in the bathroom. “Don’t worry Mr. Abrams, I have one last question for you, then I’ll be out of your hair.” He glanced at me with one pleading eye, partially because the other was swollen shut. “Or, more like you’ll be out of mine.” I close the folder, toss it on the table and lean forwards to pull the gag out. “Now, Mr. Abrams. Tell me something. What kind of earthly psychopath keeps raw tea bags in the refrigerator?” And the only sound that comes out of his mouth is a confused, yet, fearful whimper.