The Patricide

Until we meet again

Amber liquid flowed fluently in it's little domain. Cubes of ice hit the walls of the cup with a clank, as it shifted with the graceful movement of the pungent liquor. Pale fingers meandered around the waist of the cup, holding it tighter every time a figure would saunter past. The man emptied his glass and averted his gaze to his folded arm. He had never been one for parties, and was quite displaced when his acquaintance threw him in a pub, loaded with boisterous Italians and what not. Too much of anything was less fulfilling, unfortunately, this statement stood true for the drowsy man. He had drunk too much, laughed too much, spoke too little, and thought quite less. It all summed up in the morning, when a screw had been skillfully drilled into his head. When his apartment was filled with unknown faces, whom he had the pleasure of accompanying the night before, was in all honesty, substantial for him to weigh. 

An audible sigh escaped his mouth.

This day is just of the many others. Another task is assigned for him to do, as he was always seen as the man for the job. Many spineless aristocrats, unwilling to do the dirty work themselves, turn to him for a heartwarming favor. It was simple business, wherein both of them would have something in return. Though an awful hangover dazed him for a while, he considered it no excuse to waste a day of finding his new victim,

And yet again, his body seems to think otherwise. His mouth silently lurched out, in an effort to vomit, as he pressed himself against the bar. Nothing foul had come out, sending faint relief through him. The bartender looked at him, an irritated and somewhat disgusted look on his face. He passed him a white pill, the size of his thumb and urged him to drop it in the glass of water he offered. His customer gave him a slight smile, and a curt nod. The bartender's busy hands then, continued to clean out the cups, mugs, and bar paraphernalia he had just washed. It was disturbingly early for him to creep up into a chair and order some whisky, judging by the time he had arrived in his apartment. He had only a mere 3 hours of sleep, before being woken up by his alarm.

The pill fizzled, and clouded the water. In sheer seconds, it had vanished, diluted by his tasteless drink. He held in it in his, and tipped the glass over to the Bartender.

"Bottoms up." He said.

The butt of the glass, made a mild thud as he set it down. He wasn't about to do something just yet. His client had ordered him to tail Sergio Basillio, or otherwise known as the owner of a famous bakery. It intrigued the contract killer. He had at least expected a man clad in slick black fabric, dark-eyed beauties under his right and left. But a baker? He shook his head. Better not to poke his nose in other people's business. It may just cost him much more than what he has. 

"Say, Chief."

He held the empty glass and tapped it's bottom a few times on the bar, to get the Bartender's attention.

"What do you want kid?"

"Sergio. Sergio Basillio. Ever heard of him?"

He tilted his head to a fat, kind-faced man, who was currently solving a sodoku puzzle. His hard, pitch black eyes glanced at the slender built fellow before him.

"Seems like a normal day huh?"

The bartender shrugged. "What about Basillio?"

"Journalist. I Just want to squeeze some rumors about the famous baker, that's all."

"What did you say your name was, eh, amico?"

He gave out a hand, waiting for him to shake it. "Strew Hampfield."

"Ah yes! You are the one here last night, the one who got horribly drunk." 

The bartender leered, and ignored his friendly gesture.