The music isn’t too loud and bar isn’t too busy. I close my eyes and listen to the world around me. The clack of the balls on the pool table sounds over my right shoulder, in the dark corner lit only by a neon blue sign advertising a beer I’ve never heard of; the idle chatter from the table to my left, where three women are discussing work and shopping and men; two guys just to the right of me, standing at the bar exchanging one-line observations about the current state of the government; the bartender in front of me, wiping down glasses until they squeak.
I open my eyes, examining my reflection in the mirrored wall behind the bar. I take another long pull of my beer and let out a heavy sigh. My ice-blue eyes look like searchlights on the dark landscape of my face, dirty from the hours of traveling. I stroke my chin and throat, feeling the coarse, three-day-old stubble grate on my hand like sandpaper.
I definitely need a shave and a shower.
I rub my hand over my shaved head, briefly massaging my temples and taking a deep breath as I feel the strain of a full day on the road slowly leave me.
I smile to myself. I feel comfortable in a bar like this. Dull lighting, sticky floors, and no pleasantries exchanged between strangers… Just the music and me. If I ever run my own bar, it’ll be exactly like this.
I glance outside as the orange glow of the setting sun casts an impressive, picturesque view through the window. Heaven’s Valley is a deceptive place. At first glance, it’s a bright, opulent city, filled with opportunity. But beneath the surface beats its true, corrupted, dark heart — gambling, girls, gangsters, and one of the highest crime rates on the West Coast… Some people’s idea of a good time, but certainly not mine. Unfortunately, like I say, in my line of work the people who like places like this are usually the people who hire me.
It’s not easy, doing what I do. You need more than just a trained set of skills. You need certain mental attributes as well. Probably the most important is you have to be comfortable taking a life. It’s one of those things that’s real easy to talk about, but when it comes down to it and you’re staring some poor schmuck dead in the eye right before you pull the trigger — that’s something else altogether. I’ve been doing it over half my life, and it’s only been in more recent years that I’ve found myself feeling more at ease with it.
I also don’t like seeing nice, normal people made to suffer. Most of the time, the people who hire me are unsavory at best, but the person or people they want me to kill have usually done something that justifies a bullet. Drug dealers, pimps, corrupt cops… you name it. I can easily look myself in the eye after killing anyone who does something that negatively affects regular, innocent people.
The second thing any good contract killer needs is the right attitude. Not just to carry out a job, but to make the job work for you. If you play this game just right, your name can put fear in the hearts of every man in the room, even if you’re miles away. Look at me… after a decade of doing this I’m a legend in the criminal underworld. And to the various law enforcement agencies around the country, I’m a myth — a horror story they tell new recruits to scare them. No one believes anyone as ruthless and as skilled as me can really exist.
Suckers.
Fortunate Son by Creedence Clearwater Revival comes on jukebox. God, I love this song. The soundtrack of the Vietnam War. The conflict might’ve been a bit before my time, but I sure do appreciate the music that came about as a result of it.
I’m muttering the words quietly to myself when the music suddenly stops. I look up at the barman with a disappointed and confused expression on my face. He’s staring behind me with wide, regretful eyes. He looks at me for a second and lowers his gaze in silent apology, stepping away from the bar.
I sigh. I don’t need to look behind me to figure out what’s coming next. I take another long sip of my well-earned beer and spin around on my seat. I lean back and rest my elbows on the bar behind me, holding the neck of my bottle loosely in my right hand. Walking toward me are two muscle-bound stereotypes wearing suits — one with the jacket on, open, and one with just a waistcoat on. They’re side by side, staring a hole straight through me and looking really pissed off.
I sigh again.
Why me?
They both look similar. The guy on the left is the smaller of the two, but they’re both big guys. I’m a shade over six foot, and they both easily have a few inches on me. The smaller guy hasn’t shaved in a few days and I haven’t seen him blink once. He’s clearly been practicing his intimidating stare, because he’s really working it as he walks toward me.
His marginally taller friend on my right looks slightly more physically impressive, but he’s blinking more, so I’m guessing he’s the less confident one, who doesn’t pay much attention to the psychological side of conflict like the other guy does. He’s clean-shaven, though, easily the more presentable of the two. He’s the one in the waistcoat.
Behind me, I hear the barman put the glass he was cleaning down on the bar and walk away. What noise there was in the bar has stopped. There’s an audible, collective intake of breath as the people around me stop and stare with a mixture of fascination and fear.
It’s a good job I don’t get self-conscious…
The two angry stereotypes stop three feet in front of me.
“You put that song on?” asks the guy on the left, adjusting his suit jacket and practically spitting his words out at me.
“Yeah,” I reply, casually. “You not a fan?”
“That song makes my friend here unhappy. Reminds him of someone he knew.”
I turn to his friend next to him. “That right?” I ask, raising my eyebrows with feigned interest.
It’s the first guy who answers me. “Yeah, that’s right,” he continues. “And we don’t appreciate a stranger walking in here and causing problems like that for us regulars.”
I don’t take my eyes off the guy on my right, but I reply to the guy on the left. “I’m just after a quiet, relaxing drink is all,” I say, before turning back to him. “I meant no offence by my choice of song.”
“That’s as maybe, but offence was caused all the same. Which leaves you in a bad situation.”
You can argue this is a flaw of mine, but I love winding people up just before a fight. And let’s face it: this is going to end up in a fight. Not much of one, I’ll admit, because these two assholes couldn’t beat me if I was asleep. But it’ll be a fight nevertheless. A bit of trash-talk is a good thing — if you do it right, you can make people so angry that they’ll attack you without thinking. Which, as a result, greatly increases the chances of them making a mistake. And all it takes is one mistake and BAM! Goodnight sweetheart.
Plus, it amuses me.
“Really?” I say. “I’m sitting in a bar, drinking a beer and relaxing. Seems like a pretty good situation to me. Granted, it’d be better if I didn’t have to waste my breath on you two ass-clowns, but I can definitely think of worse things.”
Usually, when someone their size confronts you, they would expect people to back down or run off. They definitely wouldn’t expect anyone to spark up a conversation, or openly insult them.
They exchange a bewildered glance, as if asking each other if they can believe I’d have the nerve to speak to them like that.
“You got some mouth on you, asshole. You know that?” says the one on the left.
“I know,” I say, nodding in agreement. “Gets me in all sorts of trouble. What’s your name?”
He doesn’t expect that, either.