Kenneth Hudson's Questionnaire

Reno, Nevada - the outskirts. I live in a shitty trailer, and I've got my 1969 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am... Which, I don't even know if it's mine. I look around, and I just see a home I don't recognize. A fridge full of food, an outdated TV with an antennae on the roof, and a king-sized bed in a closed off room. The paneling is outdated, seventies - gauche.

The room on the opposite end, however, is for storage. I look in there, and I see the remnants of the life of whoever, or whatever, once lived here. Firearms, Body-Armor, Ammunition - the works.

Inversely, looking around, I see vague scraps of information. I do know my name, I do know the person who once lived here - Peter Banks. That's it.

Information in the car isn't even under my damn name.

I don't remember what I did before. All I do remember is that I have used guns in my past life. I believe I have used them for terrible deeds, and I believe this is why I'm in this run-down trailer, with a fancy car.

The contacts I have in my notebook are Peter Banks - the owner of the house, and the owner of the deed to the vehicle. And Christopher Coughlin, my apparent 'arms dealer'. I would assume he is the source of the items in the other room, and I would assume the source of the firearm in my suit's jacket.

I believe I have a meeting lined up in one of the notes on the counter. Currently, I have some jobs I must partake in around the country.

In order to remember who I am, I must remember who I am, in the current moment. I am a man who does not recognize his own face, sitting in a remote trailer within the Nevada desert - a single air conditioning unit along with a windmill in the far back is my current lifeline against heat-stroke. In my trailer, I have weaponry, and a list of targets I must take - I do not have my own identity, and I only know my name.

Evidently, in order to know who I am, I must capitalize on who I currently am. I am a hitman, I do not know who my employer, or employers, are - all I know is that I have a list of targets, and that list will eventually end.

I will need to finish my work, find other contract-killers, and take their identities. I believe that, my face, is not truly my face.

My most defining moment is, of course, waking up in the middle of the Nevada Desert in this gaudy suit, and this fine car, but...

What I do remember, is at an early age, I was fascinated by action movies. Neo, Blade - things like that. I wanted to emulate them so, so bad. But at that time, whoever I was, I was normal.

Currently, I do know this. I do not know my own face. When I look in the mirror, I see somebody I do not recognize, with a name that is not my own.

My most defining moment is now.

My Arms Dealer, the person I know the 'most', Chris Coughlin. I have been in brief contact with him. He is a man in his mid-thirties - a scruffy, sunglasses-wearing, Hawaiian-shirt donning, buckethat-wearing man at around five-foot-ten. I have met him briefly, and he appeared to recognize my current identity. I got a good deal on a nice formal shirt, something sturdy that won't get broken easy - complimented the car I have, too. He seems sharp, but not 'business' sharp - street sharp is a better term. Or, street smart.. I don't know. I believe he is as happy to have me as a customer as I am to have him as a dealer.

Jean Mills, a 7/11 clerk on a corner in Reno, Nevada. He seems like a well-adjusted person. A stoner, open to conversation. He seems to believe only half of the things I have to say. He does not seem to respond to my advice of getting into a trade, but I cannot change the direction of somebody's life. My sympathies go out to his immediate family for his lack of intelligence.

Bradley Quinn, a two-bit thug I encountered trying to find a way into my car. He had decided to stand-down, and we had found common ground in our circumstances - the both of us do not wish for the authorities to know of our circumstances. He can deal dope all he wants, I have no use for the stuff. Where I have respect for my adversaries, he has none. He, however, recognizes 'game', so-to-speak - the both of us appear to be ruining lives in the pursuit of money.

It is in my belief that I had not pursued a higher-education. If I had gone to a school, then any memories I have currently evade me. To my knowledge, my life is in the 'now', so to speak.

I only have identities that do not appear to be mine. And so, through these identities, they appear to 'live'. I do not believe it is a subconscious act through which I embody people, I do it because what lives I take are not forgotten. It is my deepest regret that I do not know much about whom I embody, only that they live.

I do not remember 'who' they were,

I do not remember 'who' their parents are,

I do not remember 'where' they went to get an education,

I do not remember 'where' they once lived.

I remember nothing about myself, and I only re-live life through those who no longer exist.

This is, currently, my only way I can 'fit in', and attend life itself.

I would not know. Being interconnected with people beyond a friendship, to me, is irrelevant. I, previously, did not know if I am human or not. At this point, I am more steadfast in my beliefs - if there is a 'true' person behind my face, I do not believe they will re-surface, though it is worth the effort to try, to remember how I forgot.

The only love I have is my job. This is my entire identity, and my entire meaning. If I did not have my line of work, I do not believe I would exist. This is life.