Humberto Figueroa Urquiza woke agitated and unsure why. He had an espresso, smoked a Gaulois, and felt a little better, but still far more anxious than he was accustomed to, having the constitution of a water snake. With evident discomfort, he flipped through the newspaper, smoked another Gaulois and showered, but still felt out of sorts. Then while shaving, he cut his chin. His irritation mounting, he did what he always did in a time of displeasure: he took his sniper rifle out from the closet, polished it, and rested its stock on his shoulder under his chin just next to the red dollop of tissue paper, sweeping the view through the scope across the next square over. When his finger pulled softly into the trigger and the fruit merchant collapsed in a heap, a shot of approximately 400 meters, balloons and streamers fell from the ceiling along with a banner bearing the numeral 1000. Brushing the confetti from his shoulder, Humberto Figueroa Urquiza allowed himself a brief smile and reflected on a long and prosperous career. The milestone achieved, he could continue about his morning activities without any further niggling dilemma.