Ulysses B. Donkman and the Heinous Hitman
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Ulysses B. Donkman

Died September 3rd, 1898

True heroes die for us.

Sherman Lockwell stood underneath a weeping willow. He hated to stand near anything that wept, but this was the quietest of the bunch.

The funeral was packed. Hundreds had turned out to pay their respects for Donkman. Men, women, and children all cried tears of pain over the loss of their hero. Lockwell cried tears of joy over the money he'd be getting today.

He just wished they didn't have to meet at the funeral, of all things. He liked towns and cities; it was just interesting, with the people and the buildings. There was an extra dimension to it, both literal and metaphorical. But instead, he was stuck in a barren flat field, interrupted only by headstones and a small crowd of walking water pumps.

The preacher walked to the podium. "Today, we celebrate the life, and mourn the loss of one dearest to us, to our nation, and to all decent human beings. Ulysses B. Donkman was wickedly killed, struck down by a coward and a villain. He died bravely, a hero. A defender of all that was decent, good, and just."

One Week Ago

Lockwell walked into the Galloping Goose. In most respects, it was a bar like any other. Waitresses shouting at one another, round tables cluttered with strong drinks and even stronger men, and the obligatory round dartboard. What stood out to him were the photos. Dozens of them, all of the same man doing different things: Sitting in a train, standing over a dead bear, sitting atop a horse. He'd done his research, and knew of only one man with this sort of fame in these parts.

Lockwell sat down. The bartender, a large man with a wide mustache, raised his eyebrows. "Never seen you 'round here before."

Lockwell smiled. "Probably not, but more folks are more business."

"Aye, fair enough. What can I get for you?"

Lockwell thought for a moment. "Surprise me. I'm in the mood for it."

As the bartender poured the drink, he asked "So what brings you to the Galloping Goose?"

"Looking for a fellow named Donkman," said Lockwell, "Big fan of his, came down here to meet him."

The bartender stopped for a moment. "Lotsa folks come down to see the Donkman. Proud to say I know the guy, at least."


"Oh yeah. Doesn't stay in one place for very long, but he does pop by here every so often. I think he's in town today, actually, so I'd say you might be in luck."

The bartender handed Lockwell the drink, which he cautiously sipped. It wasn't too strong, and it tasted faintly of cherry. "I wouldn't call it luck. I know a few folks, they told me where to go."

"Well, you seem eager to meet- speak of the devil, there he is now!"

Lockwell turned in his seat to look at the man who had just walked in. Donkman was definitely an impressive sight, and it had nothing to do with his actual looks. The way he carried himself, his friendly expression; everything about him was graceful and charming.

The bartender waved. "Donk! You've got an admirer here!" He gestured to Lockwell.

Donkman grinned and held out his hand. "Nice to meet you, partner! Always happy to oblige a fan!"

Lockwell took the hand and shook it. Donkman had a firm grasp. "It's an honor, Mr. Donkman."

Donkman sat down next to Lockwell. "The usual, Johnny." The bartender handed him a glass and Donkman turned to Lockwell. "So what can I do for you?"

"Just was hoping to meet you."

Donkman grinned. "Well, I reckon you done that-!" He stopped and turned to a few folks yelling his name. "Ayy, if it ain't Johnny Deadbolt, how you doing…"

Now was Lockman's chance. He looked around the bar and planned everything out. It was easy to cause chaos in a place like this.

And a push and a shove later, the bar was in a riot. Drinks, stools, bodies flying everywhere. He turned about and saw Donkman defending himself with a bar stool. It was too easy.

No one heard the gunshot.

No one noticed him carry Donkman's body out.

It was late at night. He took Donkman to the river. Everything was going easily. He tied some large stones to Donkman's feet. And just to be sure, he shot the body a few more times, in the heart and head. Finally, he threw it in.

Nobody saw him do it. Nobody noticed him come back. The bar, the houses, everything was dark and still.

All too easy.

He tuned back into the preacher, just in time for his special segment. "And now, to Donkman's murderer," said the preacher. He'd begun to cry, tears of anger falling down his face. "I do not know if you are here, but if you are, know that even Christ himself should not seek mercy towards you. You have destroyed a true bastion of strength, love, justice, and honor. A man most beloved by all he knew, and yet you were able to reach into the depths of hell itself to find the sheer cruelty to destroy him."

Lockwell nodded. He'd heard this sort of thing before, although he had to confess he was impressed by the emotion he heard. Interesting, but it didn't matter to him. A dead guy was money, and he didn't care who would miss him. All that mattered was that he was paid.

The preacher finished with slight sob and wiped his eyes. The coffin was lowered into the ground, hitting the earth with a loud flump. Lockwell checked his watch. When he looked up again, a man in a dark coat and large hat was walking towards him.

"Sherman Lockwell?" he asked. The newcomer had a slight British accent, though it was barely perceptible underneath his quiet voice.

"That'd be me, chief. You have what I want?"

"Of sorts, although not what you were expecting."

Lockwell shifted slightly. Something was up. "What do you mean?"

"I'm Charles Gayle. I represent your employer." Gayle straightened his tie. "He wants you to meet him again."

Lockwell pointed at Gayle. "Now hold on a sec. I don't care what words the boss has for me, I just want my money. I did the job, I'd like to be paid for it!"

Gayle put his hands up defensively. "You'll get your money, rest assured. That's partially why he'd like to meet with you again, he has your pay. But there is something else you should be aware of."

Gayle pulled out a few photos and gave them to Lockwell. Each of them was a picture of a different person. "Who are they?" asked Lockwell.

"Each of them was sent to assassinate Mr. Donkman," said Gayle. "Each of them failed."

Lockwell looked at the pictures again. A few of them he even recognized: a mustached man, very clearly Albert Taim; a hooded figure, with an N-shaped brooch for "The Neutralizer"; he'd even met the next person, David Kaile. A chill went up his spine as he considered that what he'd done had possibly been more significant than he'd thought.

"As you have probably guessed, your client was… impressed by your work. He'd like to make contact with you again." Gayle smiled slightly. "Between you and I, it takes quite a lot to impress the boss. I can guarantee he has more fine offers for you in the future."

Thunder rumbled in the distance, making both men start slightly. "I'd best be going," said Gayle, "I wish you luck, Mr. Lockwell."

Gayle walked back towards the crowd, and was quickly lost. Lockwell leaned against the tree he stood under. Slowly, he grinned. Things were looking up for him. A successful job, good pay, and a guarantee of more work in the future.

He felt a slight uneasiness, and tried to ignore it. But he couldn't help but feel a bit off about everything. He thought for a moment, and shook it away. The job was successful. His client was well-known for keeping their promises. Besides, he could always worry about it later.

Rain began to fall, and as the crowd's umbrellas went up, so did his spirits.

Charles Gayle walked towards his horse-drawn carriage. His servant opened the door for him, and he stepped inside. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and smiled.

"I trust everything went well?" said Mr. Arshull.

Gayle laughed. "Oh, beyond well, Arshull. Beyond well." He took a sip of his drink. "Lockwell is on track to becoming a fabled assassin, and his boss has had a deep fear put to rest at last."

Mr. Arshull nodded. "I'm glad you enjoyed yourself, sir. Now that today's affairs have been settled, perhaps you'd like to take a brief respite?"

"I like where you're going, Mr. Arshull. But there's still time left for a bit of fun, I'd say."

Mr. Arshull smiled. "I suppose you'd like to keep tabs on our friend Lockwell for now then?"

The carriage started forward. "Aye, we'll do that."

"Ah, what did you think of the funeral, sir?"

Gayle began to laugh. "Truly beautiful, Arshull. I loved the sentiment, although it's a pity nobody came."

"A clever trick all the same," said Arshull. He puffed on a cigar.

"I'll take the compliment," said Gayle, "Besides, no one would have remembered their hero's face anyway."

"Including Mr. Lockwell, of course."

"Yes, although I don't pity myself for him. He doesn't need to know he failed his mission," said Ulysses B. Donkman. "Now, let's keep a good eye on him. I want to know exactly who wants me dead."

They started off down the road, leaving a mirage to dissipate behind them.

Notice from the Foundation Historical Analysis Division


The Galloping Goose, a bar frequented by SCP-4768.

Foundation agents investigating SCP-4768's history of human relations found evidence of multiple assassination attempts against it. None of them had succeeded. However, a journal entry by Sherman Lockwell, a hitman at the time, claimed that he had successfully killed SCP-4768 in the Galloping Goose, a bar which SCP-4768 frequented. Additionally, a second entry affirmed that he had actually visited its funeral, but further investigation concluded that no records within Lockwell's area of operations confirmed the death or burial of anyone named Ulysses B. Donkman.

All photographic evidence is available to personnel with 3/4768 Clearance at the Site-51 Archives.

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