The man entered his old messy apartment and threw his black slightly bloodstained trenchcoat on a chair. He took a few steps, lay down on the coach, and removed his black wire-rim shades. It had been a long day. So many writers to silence, so little time. He had made a couple of million bucks today but he knew he'd lose it all the next day drinking and gambling.

He looked at the news: 'Kielle's Writer's Block Disaster: Missing Minor Muse Found Dead.' 'Tap Overdrawn: Dawn Dies Again!.' 'Jess Is A Mess: Writes Story About A Muse.' The newspaper brought a smile to his face.

"God, I love my job," he said with a grim laugh. He took a twelve-ounce beer can and quickly guzzled its contents down. He thrived for havoc in the fan fiction community. Every time a writer had 'writer's block,' or felt like they were 'lacking a muse,' they were right. It was his fault. His name was Daemon Hunter, and he was an assassin. He shot up muses just for the hell of it. He even scored some permanent kills in his time. You never saw any new posts from Supereub. There hadn't been any new chapters of Mharie in years. People had all but forgotten Hotshot and his variants. All because of him.

The phone rang and Daemon answered it.

"Daemon, it's me, Cornelli. I've got a job for you," the voice over the phone said.

"Yeah, what is it?"

"We have couple writers we need silenced," the voice said.

"Who?" Daemon replied.

The man read a list of names. One 'Star Trek' muse, a 'Xena' muse, and the muse of a guy who just hung around Subreality. By the next day they would all be has beens. Within a few months they would be completely forgotten.

"You want me to kill their main muses. That'll cost you big money," Daemon said.

"How much?" the voice on the phone asked.

"More than I think you have," Daemon replied.

The voice read figure that had least ten zeroes in it.

"That much a piece, and it's a deal," Daemon said.

The voice mumbled something.

"It's been a pleasure doing business with you," Daemon said with a wide smile.

The End?