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He snapped his fingers and ordered a shot of Drumbahka. A swamp drink of immense strength, it was known colloquially as "The Wife Beater".
The scrawny bartender made no eye contact with the assassin as he poured the drink. He didn't want to be a witness to anything. He didn't want to remember his face if he had to recall it to the authorities or computers. Lieing didn't work like it used to. Generally if people knew something, they'd have to cough it up while questioned. The secruity forces had a device, that utilised a new energy: (electricity) by attaching a harness to witnesses heads and sending the right current into the right places, there was a 95% chance of "truth leakidge".
The bartender nervously crept into the pantry. The assassin sipped his shot. "The bartender has nothing to fear, I'm not here for you, you idiot. I'm not here for anyone. I'm here for myself. To save my neck I need to sever his."
He looked back at his target to see him sitting by himself. His friends had gone. Either home or to the bathroom. It didn't matter at this point.
"Kill, kill, kill. Vicious masked creature. Vicious vile slobbering dog, vicious vile pitiful ruiner and thief. Die, die, die."
The assassin closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He approached the Venetian and reached his right arm behind his back into his rain coat.
The Venetian was staring at his nails meekly. He looked up to see the thick-set figure lumbering violently in his direction. He began to panic, while simultaneously trying to keep his calm and hope that he was not interested in him. It seemed unlikely that here of all places he would be attacked, or that he of all people would be targeted. Or that a drifter-mess like that could have any real knowledge of who he was.
The assassin stomped and thuddered closer and closer. He reached the Venetian's table, drew his weapon and gently placed it in front of him. A tall and long wooden club with sharpened black nails crudely hammered into it. The Venetian looked at the club and looked up at Billington's face gawkishly. It was all he ever saw again.
From a mouthful of club and nails he bounced against the wall. His skull shattered and his mask fell into splinters. The other patrons all either darted home or into the pantry.
The job was finished. After a few more throws of the club his head was no longer remotely human.
"Just like breathing, you don't think you just do it. That was as necessary and natural as breathing." He solemnly wiped his club clean with a napkin and left the deserted bar.
The scrawny bartender made no eye contact with the assassin as he poured the drink. He didn't want to be a witness to anything. He didn't want to remember his face if he had to recall it to the authorities or computers. Lieing didn't work like it used to. Generally if people knew something, they'd have to cough it up while questioned. The secruity forces had a device, that utilised a new energy: (electricity) by attaching a harness to witnesses heads and sending the right current into the right places, there was a 95% chance of "truth leakidge".
The bartender nervously crept into the pantry. The assassin sipped his shot. "The bartender has nothing to fear, I'm not here for you, you idiot. I'm not here for anyone. I'm here for myself. To save my neck I need to sever his."
He looked back at his target to see him sitting by himself. His friends had gone. Either home or to the bathroom. It didn't matter at this point.
"Kill, kill, kill. Vicious masked creature. Vicious vile slobbering dog, vicious vile pitiful ruiner and thief. Die, die, die."
The assassin closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He approached the Venetian and reached his right arm behind his back into his rain coat.
The Venetian was staring at his nails meekly. He looked up to see the thick-set figure lumbering violently in his direction. He began to panic, while simultaneously trying to keep his calm and hope that he was not interested in him. It seemed unlikely that here of all places he would be attacked, or that he of all people would be targeted. Or that a drifter-mess like that could have any real knowledge of who he was.
The assassin stomped and thuddered closer and closer. He reached the Venetian's table, drew his weapon and gently placed it in front of him. A tall and long wooden club with sharpened black nails crudely hammered into it. The Venetian looked at the club and looked up at Billington's face gawkishly. It was all he ever saw again.
From a mouthful of club and nails he bounced against the wall. His skull shattered and his mask fell into splinters. The other patrons all either darted home or into the pantry.
The job was finished. After a few more throws of the club his head was no longer remotely human.
"Just like breathing, you don't think you just do it. That was as necessary and natural as breathing." He solemnly wiped his club clean with a napkin and left the deserted bar.
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