johannaochrasmusskriver

The sky above the port was crying. Large, heavy tears infected with the smog and filth of a city of vice and virtue, built on a foundtation of broken dreams and riches beyind most peoples wildest dreams. The night was black as tar and smelled of sex, booze and cigarettes, the smell of lives wasted or lost on the wheel of Fate.
The small bar, in wich Greg currently tried to enjoy his third gin and tonic, shielded him from the city's weter aspects but the rotten stench of bad tobacco that kept trying to push it's way down Gregs nostrils and force him to relive the last two drinks made him question his decision to grace this God-forsakened reenactment of a sewage pipe with his precence. But the drinks were strong and the company the way he liked it; absent, so he decided to stay for a while longer.
He lit a cigarette and let out a sigh, spreading second-hand death in the near empty room. Greg smiled at the thought for a moment; should it actually work, he'd be out of a job.

Greg wasn't a handsome man, nor was he particularily ugly. He'd been blessed or cursed with an average built and an unmemorable face. Enough to score, but never with the hottest girls. He had long fingers and an air of mystery about him that occasionally turned heads as he walked by, but other than that, Greg was quite unremarkable.

He had just finished his drink and was about to order another ne when the woman of his dreams opened the door and walked in. You could hear the simultaneous gasp from all the men as every head in the bar turned to face her. Had it been a movie, she would've closed her black umbrella and shakened her long, ravenblack hair in perfect slowmo. Her legs were long and slim, and the skirt ended at the blurry length were professional and indecent overlap. A businessjacket covered a slender waist and two perfect breasts. Greg hoped that he wasn't drooling but knew that he was unable to make the necessary movement to find out as her dark blue eyes nailed him to his chair. She approached him with a small smile playing on her lips painted in the colour of blood. Her face was a spectrum of lust and cruelty but with a strange touch of hope, as if placed there as a mere afterthough by the artist that surely had been involved in her creation.
She walked up to him and sat down at his table.
"Gregory," she said, tasting the name on her soft tounge. "Aren't you going to buy a lady a drink?"
Greg nodded, silently as his eyes swept across the woman and noticed the white flower in her hair. The first sign.
"What'll you be having?" he asked her.
"A bloody mary on ice. Easy on the worchester." The second sign.
Greg waved at the bartender and the darkhaired lady was soon given a drink as red as her lips. She stired it slowly, three times clockwise and then four times in the opposite direction. The third, and last sign. Normally, he'd  ask her to step outside with him at this point to discuss the details, but it was raining and no-one was in earshot, so Greg decided to risk it.
"How do you want it done?" he asked her while staring directly into the darkblue oceans that was her eyes.
"As soon as possible. Pick your method, I don't care how it's done."
Her voice lacked all emotion, cold as ice and sweet as honey. She handed him an envelope that he knew would contain a picture and some details. He opened it and almost let her see his suprise; he recognized the man on the picture. Every man, woman and child in town knew the face of the billionaire who'd almost made US Senator three years ago.
"Not an easy task," he said, thoughtfully.
"That's why I went to you," she replied. "I'll pay fifty thousand. And," she added, after a small pause. "Since I like you, I'll throw in a little bonus after you're done." Her smile could only mean one thing. Her smile seald the deal.

An air of looming catastrophe hung in the air like smog as Greg made his way to the targets home a couple of nights later. The place was a mansion the size of a football field in the outskirts of town. It was outside the turfs of the streetgangs, and the regular gangbangers and hookers had been replaced with private security and rent-a-cops high on paranoia and imagined authority instead of crack and crystal meth. Greg was welldressed enough to avoid nosy questions but not enough to gain any particular attention. He made his way silently through the night.
As he reached the mansion, he had to admit being a bit impressed; the place was huge. Luckily, that would make hiding all the easier. He climbed the fence like a cat and made his way across the lawn, a shadow fleeting over the surface of a mirror. A window was opened in a matter of  seconds, and Greg slipped inside. It was dark and it took his eyes a couple of seconds to adjust to the sparse light of the moons sorrowfilled illumination. After carefully moving through the rooms, Greg climbed a creaking set of stairs and found himself standing in a long hallway. The light from a sparkling fire shone at the end of the manmade tunnel, Greg approached it silently, watching for movement as he unsheated his gun.

The room was large and contained a lot of wellstocked bookcases and a roaring fireplace. Greg could see his target, sitting in a big armchair with his back towards the door, gazing into the flames. Greg aimed and squeezed the trigger. He was instantly rewarded with a clicking sound and a small thump as the subsonic piece of lead tore through the mans head like a hot knife through butter and exited through the frontal lobe. The target slouched over like a sack of flour as the last seconds of his life exited through the bullet wound. Greg smiled; another job well done. He knelt down to collect the empty case.
”Nice shot!” The sudden voice almost made Greg leap out of his skin. He swiftly pointed the gun towards the source of the words and found himself facing the man he’d just shot in the head. The exit wound between the mans eyes was still smoking.
”I’ve got to admit it, I didn’t hear you coming at all. Good work indeed!” Greg put two more bullets into the mans head and kept firing at the torse until the gun clicked empty. The man was still smiling his handsome made-for-tabloids smile.
”Wow! You only missed two out of eighteen, and most of the hits would’ve been fatal. Your really good.”
The mans chest now contained enough holes to qualify him as a swiss cheese, but that didn’t seem to bother him at all. Greg turned to run but before he’d even taken a single step, the man moved with a liquid-like speed which momentarily turned him to a blur, and grabbed a hold on Gregs left arm. The target was still smiling as he, calmly as if he was doing the most common and natural thing in the world, broke Gregs arm like it was a dry twig. Greg fell down to his knees gasping for air and trying not to scream.
”Very good indeed,” said the man. He looked different now, less substance and more fluid-like. The eyes glew with a malicious red light and the once friendly smile had turned to a sadistic grin.
”Good, but not good enough.”


//Rasmus