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[AudioBoxer]

After clearing himself out of the rubble, clearing that sobering experience out of his head, and clearing his case with Don Giovanni, the assassination jobs started rolling in again. Between practice rounds at the archery course and strengthening of his bowstring, of course.
But the targets he killed began to seem less and less offensive than his former opponents. There was a man who'd forgotten to pay protection money for the second time in a row. There was the father of a rival Family. There was the father of a family that The Family chose as a rival. There was a witness to a Mob hit on a bank. They each paid well - six thousand unmarked dollars on the average - but Foxbow's heart and stomach were beginning to catch up with him.
Now, they asked him to kill a retired man, Bill Johnson, living on the edge of the city. In fact, he lived right across from Rob Hood's apartment. He could snipe him from his own room and use an explosive arrow to remove any trace of the shot coming from there. Or maybe even an ordinary arrow; with the weights of ammunition he used, he could hurl Bill clear across the room. He called Bill Johnson up on his own phone at ten o'clock in the evening.
"Mister Johnson, this is Foxbow." He looked out his own window and through his target's. The shades weren't drawn; Bill stood less than eight feet from the window, listening to the receiver in his hand. "I'm calling you to tell you that -"
"You're going to kill me," Bill completed Foxbow's sentence. He looked out his window at the blue bowsman in the building next door. "I know. I have . . . seen it coming. I knew I couldn't outrun The Mob forever. Go ahead, do your duty." He hung up and crossed to the window. His hands were behind his back, and his solemn eyes stared across the narrow alley.
Foxbow hung up, very worried. Why didn't he run, why didn't he fight for his life? Was his reputation as an archer that strong? Was Bill that tired of running? He picked up his bow and one non-explosive arrow; this close to the window, he could make Bill Johnson fall out if he hit him from the right angle. He turned his attention back to Bill; still he just stood there, ready to meet his fate.
He notched up the arrow, raised the bow, and pulled the arrow back. Bill Johnson suppressed a momentary flinch. He aimed through his telescopic sight, right for the old man's heart. This was almost too much; he looked away for a second.
And an open comic book drew his eyes in. It was an issue of The Chartreuse Arrow over three years old, when Jack Firby had been doing the art work and Jim Shudder the scripting. The Chartreuse Arrow looked firmly in the direction a master criminal had just escaped, and declared, "You'll never succeed; not so long as there exists Truth, Justice, and the American Way!"
That was it. That was the final straw. Tears welled up in his eyes; he relaxed his firing arm, drew the window shade, and slumped down on his bed. And he cried.
"What have I done?" he moaned in between sobs. "What have I been doing the last three months of my life?! I've killed all the kinds of people I most needed to protect! Chartreuse Arrow, Chartreuse Arrow, how could I have let you down?!!"
He took his hands away from his face. His path was clearing now, clearing at last. He knew what he had to do. He reached up to the cowl covering his face and ripped off the two fox/wolverine pointy things sticking up from around his eyes. Foxbow was dead. He needed a new alias.
"Hmmm," he thought, drying his eyes with the torn-off bits of cloth, "Blue . . . blue . . . the Blue Archer? Naaah, too obvious. Not the Blue Bowman either, despite the two B's. How about Ram Bow? Naw, too corny. I need a name that says absolutely nothing, that'll be the most inobvious name I can have. Blue . . . blue . . . the Blue SHOOTER! Yes, that's it, I'll call myself Blue Shooter! Look out, Mob, 'cause here I come!!"
He picked up the receiver and punched in Don Giovanni's phone number. The other end rang twice before Don G. answered it with an Italian, "Yeah?"
"Don Giovanni? This is Foxbow."
"Hey, that's-a good. Did-a you do what I told youse to?"
"Yeah, I did the job," Blue Shooter lied. "And I've gotta talk to you private. It's too important to say over the phone; someone might be listening in. Meet me at the dock by peer 11 in half an hour. Yes, it's that important." <Click>, he hung up.
'Now let's see how you like it,' he thought, and headed out, bow and quiver and all.
Don Giovanni was a little late, as usual. If you're that high up on the power ladder, you can afford to be. His limo drew up through the thickening fog, he stepped out, and marched rather forcefully toward the archer's shadow.
"All right, what's so important that it couldn't . . . hey, wait a minute, you're not Foxbow!"
"That's right, I'm not," Blue Shooter commented as he raised his bow and took dead aim with a teflon-coated arrow. "Never again." He fired. Don Giovanni gasped and clutched the shaft in his chest.
And a second later, he fell in a crumpled heap on the dock. He'd been wearing a bulletproof vest, too; too bad it wasn't arrowproof.
Both the escort thug and the driver leapt out of the car instantly, shouting various phrases in Italian. Both of them reached into their vests and pulled out their .38 specials as well.
Blue Shooter had been ready for that. Even before Don Giovanni bit the dust, he'd began cueing up two arrows in his bow, one lined up above the grip and one below it. Now, he turned the bow sideways in crossbow fashion, with the arrows on top and his left arm underneath, carefully separated the two arrows with his right middle finger, and loosed both arrows at once.
Both arrows buzzed through the air faster than any eye could follow (save Blue Shooter's), struck their intended targets, and knocked both pistols out of both Mobsters' hands. The two Mobsters froze, if only for an instant, then darted back into the limousine.
"Tell your Boss," Blue Shooter shouted to the fleeing organized criminals, "That his days are numbered! HEAR THAT, BOSS?! YOUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED!! Cower in fear behind your little Mob, and be terrified . . . FOR THE BLUE SHOOTER . . . IS HEEEERE!!!"