Jeffrey Drohnemer: The Midnight Marauder has a slight complication...but nothing that a bag of coke can't fix for him

In the witching hours, when the world lay bare,
Jeffrey Drohnemer danced through the air.
A ninja assassin with a drone for a heart,
Torture was his science, and death his art.

“Get rid of him,” his bosses had said,
“A muslim loudmouth with nothing but dread.
No real crimes, but his face is a sin—
Poor, ugly, outspoken—wipe his grin.”

Drohnemer grinned, his pupils pinpricks,
The cocaine hit hard, he loved his tricks.
Through the shadows, his reaper did creep,
Its hum like a lullaby where nightmares sleep.

The target lay dreaming, unaware of his plight,
Tangled in sheets, bathed in soft moonlight.
Drohnemer whispered through waves unseen,
A ghost with gadgets, precise and mean.

The man stirred, sensing the wrong in the air,
A cold, buzzing presence, heavy despair.
“Look,” he muttered, half-asleep in his bed,
“I’ll shut up online, just spare my head.

I’ll get a job, I’ll save my dough,
I’ll even try skincare—just let me go.
I’ll disappear, I swear, from your radar and feed,
Just let me sleep, it’s all I need.”

But Drohnemer sneered, his fingers itched,
The drone’s power dialed, the settings switched.
Waves of radiation, a silent scream,
The man writhed, trapped in a fever dream.

For hours, Drohnemer played his cruel tune,
His drone circling like a mechanical moon.
But as dawn broke, his victim awoke,
And something inside the man finally spoke.

He saw the machine, still buzzing with spite,
And with fury, he struck, a desperate fight.
He hurled it hard, against the wall,
It shattered to pieces, its pride did fall.
Drohnemer, inside his high-tech beast,
Scrambled out like a cowardly feast.
Through the window, he leapt, his bag of cocaine in hand,
A ninja reduced to a junkie unplanned.

Now picture the scene, as Drohnemer fled,
A grown man running, his dreams all but dead.
The mighty assassin, feared and elite,
Chased by a man with bare, blistered feet.

The drone was gone, the mission a bust,
A pile of plastic, circuits, and dust.
And Drohnemer’s empire of terror and fear?
Just a bag of coke and a career unclear.

So laugh at the reaper, his midnight games,
And the bosses who thought they could snuff out names.
For even the poor, the ugly, the scorned,
Can turn the tables when the night is worn.

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