A steady rain fell down upon the lush vegetation of the Panamanian jungle.   One by one the raindrops bounced and rolled off the thick leaves until they reached their resting place in the black soil.   Hidden among this foilage was a predator of men, a shadow lurking, just waiting for the unsuspecting.   This was no creature however, but more of a man pretending to be, as he studied his surroundings.   This was his job, traveling to foreign lands to end the life of another man whom he had never met, nor ever would.   His name was known only to the highest level of security clearances, and his training had been conducted at the hands of ancient ninja masters located high atop a building in downtown New Jersey.   This man, this assassin, had been the governments secret weapon (and cheapest) for over a decade now...snuffing the flame of life from designated targets for only a mere five dollars.   Why so cheap?   No one knew, although it was speculated his reward was simply being allowed to kill these men...the money was just for cigarettes.   Suddenly, an old green jeep made it's way along a narrow and twisting trail headed for the compound of buildings ahead.   This killer of men, dubbed "Agent Panthro" for this mission, took up his .30-06 rifle and steadied a bead on the passing vehicle.   

      Most snipers in the world would tell you this was a difficult shot, but for "Agent Panthro" this was a view to a kill he would try hard not to fall asleep doing.   As he traced the vehicles movement, studiying the South American man's face and "Panama Jack" style hat, he let loose a yawn...and a shot.   The bullet seared the air on it's way to it's final resting place, a warm bed called the drug lords' right temple.   Birds cried and took flight as the sound resonated from the machined barrel of the .30-06, and in the distance the jeep swerved and crashed heavily into one of the many trees lining the road.   Steadily, the killer panned right and left surveying the damage he'd done, and having been satisfied his mark had met his maker, he made his escape.   Silently, as if the jungle knew better than to divulge the location of this man for fear of retribution, it swallowed him up and delivered him from the flow of guards and paid thugs now making their way to the hapless jeep.   The flight back to D.C. was a long one, in which he had plenty of time to think about life.   However, even he couldn't fathom what was to come.

      Once back stateside, he was deemed an unnecissary security risk becuase of the missions he had been sent on and was targeted for assasination.   These hitmen made the mistake of trying to kill him with a tiny bomb placed within the cap of a Pepsi bottle left in his refrigerator.   Had they done their research of his file they would have found that this man only drank Dr. Pepper, the Pepsi it would seem was left by one of his rather tawdry dates.   The next morning, the rigged soda bottle exploded upon the unsuspecting vixen and destroyed much of what was the assassin's icebox.   Angered over the loss of his refrigerator, this killer of men made his way through town systematically and professionally taking the life of every man involved in the hit .   When it was done, he realized he suddenly had no job and in fact no country anymore, so he turned to the only other thing he knew...pimpin'.   

      Hoe-ing out women was a skill he had picked up and mastered while stationed at Da Nang, so it seemed a likely choice for a new career.   Besides, killing for profit wasn't that much different than killing those who screw with your profits.   Once he re-aquainted himself with the proper speech, walk and demeanor, it was time to outfit himself and dress for success.   A felt hat with a wide brim, gold chains, a suit and gold fish bowl platform shoes now became the tools of his trade.   Soon, his brand of justice began to leave a mark on the streets...usually in the shape of a hand print across the face on any unsuspecting trick.   As it turns out, his identity is still unknown even to the hookers who work for him...they only know him as "Big Daddy"   Those who meet him do so in one of two ways...hearing "Where my bitches?" in a raspy voice or as a tall shadow standing behing three or four small flashes preceding a bright white light.   Pray you don't end up the latter.