The helicopter flew low over the jungle canopy below. The helicopter banked to the right and entered the valley - ‘2 minutes’ - said a voice in Mr. Amazing’s ear through the headset. They were in Colombia on a CIA mission - one of many, many missions. Mr. Amazing sat alone in the rear of the blackhawk helicopter - the only other person in the rear was the doorman. The helicopter had no lights on - and in its rear it was pitch black. The light from the full moon shone through the open side - and Mr. Amazing could see the jungle below. The trees of the jungle in the moonlight looked gray and metallic.

‘1 minute’ - said a voice through the headset. Mr. Amazing closed his eyes, and waited. He felt the helicopter slowing, and then hovering. He opened his eyes and the doorman was pushing out the rope. ‘At the drop zone’ - said a voice in his ear. He stood and moved across to the open door, stooped over. He took the rope in his hands, and then sat on the edge of the helicopter’s side, and then he stepped off and slid down the rope and into the monochrome jungle below.

When he was on the ground the rope began being pulled up - and then he heard the engines of the helicopter powering up and it banked around inside of the valley and then disappeared into the distance. He was all alone now - just him, the jungle, and the targets. No witnesses was his primary order - no survivors. No one that could say that Mr. Amazing had turned up and done so-and-so. The jungle would be his witness tonight - and the white moon above. They would see everything he would do - they would witness it, and they would survive. But the moon and the jungle would be silent witnesses - they would never speak of what Mr. Amazing did when no one was watching. In the other world there were always witnesses, there had to be. There had to be witnesses to his heroics and daring deeds. What is the point of being a hero if there is no one to witness it? But here, in places like this jungle, there was nothing heroic. He was the CIA’s janitor - sent to clean up a mess that had been created, sent to make sure that everything was the way it was supposed to be. But with no witnesses. The CIA weren’t interested in showing the world how their mess was cleaned up - it wasn’t heroic work.

Mr. Amazing moved through the jungle and towards the target - towards the mess. It was about 10 kilometers from where he was, and it would take him a couple of hours to get to the target, and then scoping the target out, and then he would start cleaning up the mess. He didn’t know who the targets were, or what they had done to offend the masters of the universe - he was at the bottom of the decision making process. A janitor doesn’t get involved in discussions about why something has to be cleaned - his job is to just clean it up. He was on a need to know basis - and so far no one seemed to think he needed to know anything other than where the target was, and that there must be no witnesses. So he did as he was told - and cleaned and then waited for the next mess and then cleaned again.

***

He sat and watched the camp - in amongst the undergrowth. He could see a building with lights, and a couple of trucks. There were guards around the perimeter, who were chatting and smoking cigarettes. It looked relaxed - no one appeared to be on high alert, which was good.

The moon looked down on the camp - and saw the building and the trucks and the guards. It would all be gone soon. The building would be blown up - and the people inside of it dead. The trucks would be destroyed, and the guards would be all dead. The jungle wrapped itself around the camp - the targets - like a monochromatic blanket, there to protect the world from what would happen inside of the clearing.

Mr. Amazing moved from the undergrowth - and sneaked up behind the guard closest to him. He placed a hand across the guard’s mouth and then slit his throat. He held the guard for a moment, feeling the guard’s body tense and then relaxing - and then he slowly and gently laid him down on the ground and moved to the next guard, and then the next. The perimeter was cleared, and he moved towards the building. He pulled from his webbing a bomb - and he crouched beside the building, the yellow light from the glassless window spilling out into the the night. He set the timer for the bomb to five seconds, and then very cautiously peered into the opening. There was a group of men wearing olive drab army uniforms - and they were sitting around and drinking a clear liquid from bottles with no labels. They were speaking Spanish, and smoking and laughing. There were about 10 men in the building. He lowered his head from the window, and set the bomb and then tossed it through the open window. He heard the men all stop talking and laughing - and then the bomb exploded. An orange fireball ripped through the open window - he sat for a moment, and then stood and walked to the open window. Chunks of brick were missing - and the room was filled with smoke and fire. He climbed through the open window, and waited for a moment - waiting for sounds, waiting for moans and cries for help. The smoke began to clear - and the walls were covered with blood and bits of bodies. Arms and legs lay on the floor. He walked through the building - and a man was still alive. He was badly injured - with a large cut in his chest and blood was seeping from his ears. The man was laying on the floor, groaning. He continued to check the building - everyone else was dead. He stepped outside and checked to see if anyone was trying to crawl or stagger away - there wasn’t anyone. The moon and the jungle watched Mr. Amazing, and he turned and went back into the building. He went to the groaning man, and lifted him up and propped him against the wall. The man was in shock - and was dying.

‘Can you talk?’ - said Mr. Amazing

The man groaned and stared at Mr. Amazing. He put his hand in the man’s shirt front pocket, and took out a packet of cigarettes - he placed a cigarette in the man’s mouth and then lit it. The man puffed on the cigarette and stared at Mr. Amazing. Mr. Amazing picked up a chair that was laying on its side, and placed it in front of the man. There was a case of the spirits the men had been drinking - sugar cane spirit - and one bottle wasn’t broken. Mr. Amazing took the bottle and sat down on the chair. He pulled the cork out of the bottle, and then took the cigarette out of the man’s mouth and held the bottle to the man’s lips. The man drank from the bottle, and then he put the cigarette back in the man’s mouth - ‘You speak English?’

The man nodded weakly.

Mr. Amazing took a drink from the bottle - ‘It’s so hard’ - he said, and he stared at the dying man in front of him.

‘...its so fucking hard - being this. Whatever the fuck this is. Last week I was at an inner city school - to open their new basketball stadium that was paid for by my charity…and there were so many kids there all shouting and screaming and excited to see me. And I was signing autographs and then I made a speech about being the best you can be - that you should aim to be amazing, just like me…’

He took another drink from the bottle, and the dying man continued to stare at him - the cigarette limply hanging from his lip.

‘...and I remembered this one mission I was sent on in Africa. It was the same fucking mission - go in and kill everyone. And I did - I did what they told me - I fucking killed everyone. But there was this one hut on the compound I was clearing - and inside of it was this family, a mom and a baby and two kids. And the little boy - he must have been about 9, I guess - he was wearing a fucking t-shirt with me on it. And I stood there and I looked at him and he was crying and his family was crying and they were begging me to help them…’

He stared at the dying man, and tears rolled down his cheeks.

‘...and he was just like those kids at the school - a little black kid with a fucking Mr. Amazing t-shirt - and I fucking killed him…no fucking witnesses’

Mr. Amazing started to sob.

‘...and when I saw those kids at the school - I just remembered his face, staring at me. I think they thought I was there to rescue them - that I was going to fucking save them. Can you believe that - they thought I was going to fucking save them. Why the fuck would I save anyone - unless I am told to…’

He lent over and took the cigarette out of the dying man’s mouth - and held the bottle to his lips and then lit him another cigarette.

‘...but that isn’t the hardest part. Killing kids isn’t the hardest part. The hardest part is just not knowing - but knowing that something just isn’t right. They tell me, the fucking doctor told me, that I was in a car crash - and was in a coma for years and that is why I have no memory. But I know that this isn’t true - I just fucking know it isn’t true. You see, I have this dream - I have this dream all the time, but it is not like a dream, it is like a fucking memory or something. Like it feels real - or that it was real. I have this fucking dream where I am walking across the fields and I see this house - this remote house out in the countryside. And I have a shotgun - like one of those sawn-off shotguns. And I go up to the house and I knock on the door and this man comes to the door, and I point the gun at him and I tell him to go back in the house. And there is a woman in the house, with a baby. And I get the man to tie up the woman, and then I take the man to the basement and I tie him up to a pipe - and then I beat him with a claw hammer…I smash his head with this hammer until it is like a fucking pulp. And then I goes upstairs and I finds the baby - and I stab the baby…’

He began sobbing again…

‘...and then I smashed the baby with the hammer. And then I goes downstairs and find the woman - and she is screaming and I cut her clothes off and I rape her then I put the gun in her…’

He was now crying, uncontrollably.

‘...but this is not a dream - I know this is not a dream. This is a fucking memory - but whose fucking memory is it, I ask you?’

The dying man continued to stare at him.

‘...I did this. I killed that man with the hammer. I killed that baby. And I raped and murdered that woman. I know I did - but I don’t know I did, if that makes any fucking sense…but I know for fucking certain that I killed that little black kid wearing a shirt with my fucking face on it…’

The dying man looked as though he was going to die soon - he continued to stare at Mr. Amazing, but his breathing had become shallower and more labored. He wiped his eyes, and took another swig from the bottle.

‘...but, I am a fucking hero, man. They have comics written about me, and my face on fucking boxes of cereal. And my face on fucking t-shirts that little kids wear - and these little kids want to be just like me…just like fucking me’

The dying man had died. He had stopped breathing but his now dead eyes stared out at Mr. Amazing. He took another swig from the bottle.

‘Thanks for listening…’ - said Mr. Amazing, and he stood and threw the bottle in amongst the blood and body bits.

He walked outside and went to the first truck. He opened the door to the cab and threw in a hand grenade, and then slammed the door shut. The cab exploded. He did the same to the other truck, and then walked slowly back to the jungle. The moon watched him as a silent witness as he stepped through the treeline and disappeared.

Two weeks later Mr. Amazing was opening another sports complex at a school his charity had paid for - and he told the excited children they should aim to live an amazing life. He saw the face of one of the children in the crowd - a young black boy who was wearing a Mr. Amazing shirt and he remembered the face of the boy he had killed in Africa, and he lost his thoughts and composure for a moment - and then he carried on and smiled at the crowd and waved and posed for photographs and signed autographs.