The Cruel Misgivings of Thomas Emmerson (Full title in description)

How to Seek Revenge from Beyond the Grave

Part One:

Mister Emmerson

Never in his life had Mister Emmerson ever felt so equivocally dirty then when he sat across the table from the man in the pinstriped tie. God, he wanted to rip off his handcuffs and strangle the sonovabitch for what he had done to him. If only he knew exactly what he had done to him.

It was the man who his eyes settled upon when they opened: hazy at first, like he was looking through the bottom of a coca cola glass, and glossy, like he had been drugged with too much Toxin. Mister Emmerson moaned and groaned a little, and when his gaze finally settled on him, he watched the stranger as he sat in his seat, legs crossed, looking into a lady's compact mirror, and picked his brilliantly straight white teeth with his fingernail.

He made no response to Mister Emmerson's moans and groans, but he did reply to him saying:

"Who the hell're you?"
The stranger blinked, and he turned his head to Mister Emmerson, the bright, white light bulb hanging overhead reflected in his round, rimless glasses. The man snapped the compact shut, and slipped it into his breast pocket, replacing in his hand a folded white handkerchief. He placed it on the table and rested his hands folded before him.

"Not someone you would know, actually," he answered in a very soft voice. The man had some sort of accent, either German or French. It was probably a rouse, or something. Mister Emmerson couldn't be too careful.

"Don't beat around the bush with me, Jack-o. I hate cliché's," Mister Emmerson snarled, still a little out of it but slowly regaining his sense of self. "I've been in this game far too long for you little 'sweet' tricks. You a Russian? Chinese? European?"
"I obviously am not Asian, if you couldn't tell..."

"Bullshit, them Chinks is constantly up and at'em with their 'space stations' and 'mind control blocking out cloaks'. You could be a woman for all I know, you got that compact in your breast."

The man smiled, and though it could have come across as genuine, it was a fake smile, as though it had been practiced in the mirror many times. "You are very funny, Monsieur Emmerson. Even when you are half conscious. Now, I'd like to speak business with you - that is, you are a business man, yes?"

"How do you know my name?"
"Oh, but I thought you hated clichés?"

"I do, when other people's is saying 'em."

He stretched that smile across his face again. "Very well, I may attest to that. Now, business - "

"I ain't talkin business till I knows who I'm talkin with."
The man stayed silent for a moment, then, checking his watch with a scrunched-up nose and holding it out a bit so he could see the digits better, he sighed with a smile. "Understandable." He reached into his breast pocket opposite the one with the compact mirror and pulled out a small bottle of hand sanitizer. He popped the lid and squeezed a small amount into the palm of his hand before replacing it and rubbed his hands together lavishly. "My name is Cassius. I am French, from Paris to be more specific. I run with a certain...Special organization, you might say. Same as you run with your own special organization. Now that we are acquainted, let us deal with the matters at hand..."
Mister Emmerson's eyes widened, and he laughed. Cassius leaned back a little in his seat, though Mister Emmerson wasn't sure if it was because he was confusing him, or if Cassius was afraid, he'd get spit on him. Either way, Mister Emmerson didn't care.

"Pansy ass like you running a gang train like me, huh?"

"Oh no," Cassius said, and this time, his smile was brief, but a little more real. "I play a much more dangerous game than child trafficking."