Luck Cannot Hold Up Forever

[Abolisher]

Commander Arthur Thatcher of the BAF sat in the new London docks, awaiting a reply to his desperate call for a transfer to a less dangerous part of the BAF. He'd been sober for several days, probably the most in 20 years, and his empty bottle of alcohol sat beside him on an old shipping crate. He had had all of his possessions stolen from him (little did he know it was by a thieving internal affairs officer), and had lost most of his honour through running, after an attempted murder had left him shocked.
He had survived 4 near-death situations; having his ships being beaten to pulps in battles against smugglers, and the GRN.
He was supposedly lucky, but in his current situation, he didn't feel lucky at all.
In fact, his luck was just about to turn around. His sudden soberness had left him quite unaware of his surroundings, and he didn't see the assassin as he crept into position, hidden by the crates of the dockyard.
"I wonder if that admiral fella's replied yet..." Thatcher reaches for his pocket computer, which reveals there is a reply:
"If you asked us before desertion, we could have transferred you to Poole or Salisbury, but now it would be an inappropriate example. However, there are always free places to fit into within our ranks. They are the following:
- Toilet cleaning;
- Floor cleaning;
- Repairs and maintenance staff;
- All related to acquisition, making and delivery of tea;
- And pottery (due to the sudden mass disappearance of China plates).
I hope that some of these can satisfy you, otherwise you will have to return to your previous position."
"Aww c'mon! I'm not yer bloody monkey!" Thatcher throws his computer down on the concrete in his rage "Who do ya think I bladdy well am?" He sighs. "Life could not be worse. I'd shoot meself, but I ain't got no gun anymore...
The assassin suddenly approaches Thatcher from behind, pulling out a concealed pistol from his jacket, and pointing at the back of Thatcher's head.
"Wish granted."
The shot made a small pinging sound, due to the silenced nature of the deadly gun. Yet somehow, the bullet had missed. Rather badly. (Infact, the assassin obviously did not know how bad the acid rain is in New London, and the gun had become rather damaged by the ordeal).
"Eh up guv, care...OH! That was for me?" Thatcher leaps to his feet, and quickly dashes away to the dock exit.
The chase that follows is long and pointless, whoever hired the assassin to kill Thatcher was pretty stupid, as Thatcher really isn't worth the money.
Oh yes, Thatcher does manage to get shot several times, but manages to hobble on. By this time he's been shot 10 times, but has made it to the New London zoo.
"Huh. Shouldn't I be dead by now? How long will this go on?..." Thatcher leaps over a fence, into an artificial desert area, with some stupid plan in-mind, probably involving burrowing into the sand (only to find it's only a few inches deep; it's artificial after all).
Thatcher suddenly stops.
"Oh God. HE HIT MY SPLEEN! How ironic." (It's a little known fact that Thatcher has a doctorate in mammalian physiology, and occasionally, poor (and stupid) people would come to him for surgery). Anyway, he falls to his knees, clutching at his chest. He pulls out his lucky charms. "I'll need all the luck I can get...I know, I..."
A shot echoed from behind him, finally finishing the Commander off. (The Assassin had finally found the brains to take the suppressor off, leaving a non-corroded barrel to fire from.

"Well, that was easy." The assassin casually blows the smoke from the barrel of his gun, then walks home for tea.