The note had said: “Snipe Master is not the Balloon Killer. I can tell you who is. Meet me in the big open field in the park at midnight.”

Cindy Fielding was a good reporter, maybe even the best, but sometimes her job got her into trouble. Usually it was because her no-nonsense personality rubbed people the wrong way, but tonight it was because she was so determined to get to the bottom of this story that she was standing in the park in the middle of the night waiting for an anonymous source she’d never met before. She was beginning to think it was a mistake, but she knew that she had to get the facts.

A serial killer was murdering people and covering their bodies with balloons, sometimes so many balloons that the victim’s family couldn’t even recognize the body (until they took the balloons off). What was worse was that all these balloons had to be stored as evidence, and balloons took up a lot of space. In fact, the evidence lockers down at the Police Station were getting so crowded with balloons that there was no more room for any other evidence. Cindy knew that if the killer wasn’t caught soon, the justice system in New York City would grind to a halt, and there would be lawlessness and chaos in the streets.

But that wasn’t all. On a personal level, she was desperate to get the truth, because a rival newspaper had printed a story naming Snipe Master as the prime suspect. She didn’t know Snipe Master, of course—no one knew the identity of the world’s greatest sniper, but she felt a personal connection with the vigilante crime fighter, because even though his methods were unorthodox, in the end she knew he was after the same thing she was: justice.

Her watch said it was fifteen minutes after midnight. She read the note again, verifying that she was in the right place. What was keeping her lead?

“Hello, Ms. Fielding,” a man said..
“Oh, you snuck up on me,” she said.
“I have a way of doing that,” he said. It was too dark to make out his face.
“Yes, well.. you wrote that you knew who the Balloon Killer was. It’s not Snipe Master, is it?”
“Oh no, it’s not him.”
“How can you be sure?” she asked.
“Snipe Master cannot be the Balloon Killer,” said the man, “because I am the Balloon Killer!”

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag full of colored party balloons. He advanced on Cindy, dangling the balloons in front of her and laughing. He opened a collapsable razor blade with a flick of his wrist. Cindy rifled through her purse looking for something to use as a weapon, but she couldn’t find anything.

“What’s a matter, don’t carry a gun? Where’s your precious Second Amendment now?” He laughed menacingly as he prepared to strike with the razor-sharp blade of his razor blade.

“You see, my balloons and I are just a taste of what is to come! Once we liberal democrats get our way, nobody will be able to have a gun, and the chaos I am bringing this city will look like a church picnic! Criminals and hippies will run rampant, and not even Snipe Master will be able to protect you!”

Just as he was able to finish his work, the Balloon Killer jerked suddenly, clutched his chest. Blood ran between his fingers. He wheezed some feeble last words and then fell forward, dropping his bag of balloons. The bullet had gone right over her shoulder, but she hadn’t felt a thing.

“Don’t be so sure of that!” said Cindy Fielding. She knew only one man—correction, one sniper—could have made a difficult shot like that in the dark.

The next day, Cindy was interviewing experts for a new story she was writing, about how Snipe Master had saved the city. She was interviewing a renowned expert on Ballistics and Sniping, the handsome Professor S. Masterson.

“Professor,” she asked, “do you think the people of this city will ever get a chance to thank Snipe Master for saving us from this left-wing plot?”

The professor smiled mysteriously and puffed on his pipe. “My dear,” he said, “something tells me he already knows.”