“D is for *D*angerous,” said Brian D. Agustine, world’s greatest entertainer since Evel Knievel, answering the reporter’s question.

“Is there a ghost to come?” asked one of the bottom-feeders of the journalist industry; Agustine’s story heavily overdone, the more prestigious writers turned down his invitation to the conference.

Inmortal, Brian thought, knowing he would be known long after his death, but this was not the reporter’s question.

“Haiti has enough ghosts for us to be thinking of mine,” he said. Ruby, his manager, nodded.

Climbing up the walls, the assassin found his place on the roof of the apartment building across the street. La Bamba was playing from the stereo of a Jeep driving by the Conference Centre, as another reporter asked for the name of Brian’s greatest fan.

“My Dick Ruby, always being there for me, he’s the best manager/fan I could ask for,” he said smiling. Daylight pierced through the big windows of the Conference Centre along with a bullet.

Happy Ending.