Riding shotgun with New York's most unlikely assassins

Frank Angelini sits quielty in the back corner of a darkened classroom. "Thank you for coming," he says softly, as an aspiring model makes her way onto a raised platform up front. He nods briefly at the cameraman and rattles off a list of prepared questions: Where did you go to high school? Do you have any hobbies? What was your SAT score?

Michelle, a brunette stunner, gives polite, succinct responses. The questions don't seem odd to her at first—she is here, after all, to audition for a new reality show about intelligent models.

But the interview is about to take a sinister turn. And Michelle has no idea she's in danger. The audition tape will never be screened for TV executives, or anyone else for that matter. Frank Angelini is no casting agent.

Scenes like this played out across the city last month, as part of an elaborate three-week tournament called StreetWars, a real-life spy game for adults now in its third year. Competitors go by monikers like Agent Hebrew Hammer, Agent Look Over Your Shoulder, and Agent MC Pee Pants. And they will go to incredible lengths to ambush their opponents.

Based on the popular college version of the game known as Assassins, the rules of StreetWars are simple: After receiving a dossier with a fellow participant's picture, address, and personal information, an aspiring assassin must hunt down and kill his mark, while at the same time avoiding getting whacked himself. Would-be hit men can stake out any location they want but can't fire at their targets while the victims are at work or in the subway. The weapon, in this case, is a water gun, but you'd never know it from the grave seriousness with which players approach their missions. After an unlucky warrior is successfully squirted, the assassin takes over that individual's assignment. And the last triggerman alive at the end of three weeks takes home the golden gun.

Last year, one of Manhattan's most devious man-hunters, Amanda Keylor, a then 28-year-old social work coordinator at Columbia University, broke into her mark's building from an adjacent rooftop, flirted her way into his apartment, relaxed on the couch, drank a beer with his roommate, and then shot her unsuspecting victim in the chest as he walked through the door.

The man in the classroom is a serious competitor. In civilian life, he's Frank Angelini, a caterer, bartender, and occasional stand-up comedian who makes extra cash dropping trou for New York art classes. But at this moment, he's Frankie the Hipster Slayer, ruthless assassin.

Earlier in the week, sitting in his living room in Queens, the Hipster Slayer contacted Michelle through MySpace. "Hi, my name is Frank. I am a Townsend Harris High School alum as well. I have started a little project that I think you might be perfect for ... a new reality game show. It's a bit like America's Next Top Model only there is an equal emphasis on brains as well as beauty...."

Michelle was easy prey. After a brief e-mail exchange, they set up a meeting in a vacant classroom at New York's Fashion Institute of Technology. (Angelini was set to pose nude for an art class across the hall around the same time).

He signed off, "I think you'll be very surprised at how the show ends."

Now, on the sixth floor of the FIT building, he's got her just where he wants her. The interview continues: "Did I tell you what the name of the show is yet?"

"No," Michelle replies.

"Well, it's tentatively titled Disarming Beauty," he says with a smirk as he launches into a heavily-rehearsed, Pulp Fiction-inspired soliloquy. "I think that one of the dangers of modeling—with any person, really—is vanity. This show stresses brains over beauty, but vanity can be the downfall of even the smartest person. It causes people to let their guard down." Michelle fidgets slightly.

"You know, Michelle, we both have a lot in common," he continues. "We both grew up in Queens, we both went to the same prestigious high school, we're both incredibly smart...." The Slayer pulls a small neon-green water gun out his and conspicuously lays it down in front of him, his finger on the trigger.

"And we both work as secret assassins for the Shadow Government," he says with a grin.

Michelle's eyebrows dip in confusion. Worry lines appear on her forehead. And after a few seconds, it registers. A tear begins to well up in her eye.

"Do you have any last words?" the Slayer asks with playful spite. She glances at her only exit, but it's too far away. Arching forward, she droops her shoulders and buries her head in her hand.

"No," she whimpers, slowly lifting her face up.

Angelini extends his arm and raises his water pistol. With one squeeze of the trigger, Michelle is finished.