ShakinMcBacon
ばかです
The night was calm. Rain coursed across the dim street, creating a miniature cascade of water that collected in filthy puddles. Nero’s footsteps were muffled by the rain, and he stayed hunched in his coat as he walked across the street. He kept his hands in the coat pockets, his right hand clasped around a retractable baton. A dingy pub marked his destination, its red neon sign the only light in the narrow alley. Stopping to take out the baton, he opened it with a metallic click. The rain hissed softly as it fell against the charged surface, and he pushed open the pub’s door, stepping into the smoky interior. The pub was relatively full, with most tables being occupied by patrons that drank and smoked. Laughing and talking, nobody noticed Nero approach the bar, the club held close to his body. A small chubby man attended the bar, his hair gleaming with grease. Nero could smell the man’s sweat even over the cannabis and tobacco that filled the room.
“Scotch,” Nero said, scanning his e-Fund card on the reader as the bartender crouched down, bringing up a small glass. Nero took it and found a seat in the corner of the room, at a table with a man passed out, snoring loudly with his shirt stained with beer and an unlit cigarette in his hand. Nero took the cigarette, lighting it and taking a sip of his drink. Now to wait. The baton lied across his lap, his right hand staying clenched on the handle.
Half an hour passed, and Nero feared he had misjudged his timing, but it dissipated quickly as he saw his target enter. The man was tall, reasonably handsome, with slightly graying hair. He was one of the many cannabis suppliers, and made a large amount of money by selling his product to the bar and pub owners, who in turn sold it to their patrons. He was dressed luxuriously, with a long, navy blue shoulder cape and tall, immaculate boots. Nero stood slowly, pretending to stretch, and watched the man take a seat at the bar, talking with the fat bartender. Walking casually through the crowd of patrons, Nero waited until he was a metre away before striking. He went for the neck, bringing the baton down viciously, then struck the man’s hand as he fell, feeling a finger crack with the impact. Suddenly, Nero was hit from behind, and he stumbled over the pot dealer, nearly falling over as he turned around. A brute of a man growled at him, holding a chair with which he had struck Nero. With a shout, the man charged, and Nero sidestepped, knocking the man to his knees with the baton, then struck him square in the face, causing him to fall to the floor with a heavy thud. The pot dealer was now sitting up, clutching his hand and looking at Nero with a look of complete hatred.
“You idot! Do you know who I am!? Soon my me-” The man’s voice was cut off as Nero struck him across the face, snarling as he did so. Pulling a blade from his coat, Nero cut the man’s tongue out, stuffed the blade away, and then quickly rifled through the man’s pockets. He found a bill of sale and an e-Fund card, and walked out, his mission accomplished. He was about to consider the night a success when he was met with four men standing out in the street, all holding long blades that crackled with electricity. Obviously they were the pot dealer’s men, and they did not seem pleased to see Nero. Nero turned and ran, splashing through a puddle. He heard shouts behind him, and the report of a gunshot. Nero fell into a gutter. He heard muffled voices, and another shot. Both shots went unnoticed in the slums of Vancouver, and Nero’s vision faded.
Nero awoke to a hell of pain and delirium. He lied face down in the pitch black, feeling the rain fall on his back and seep down his neck. He let out an audible groan, and tried to lift himself. A shock of pain flared up his back, and he laid still once more. Trying again, he managed to turn himself onto his side, then back. Wincing with pain, he used one last effort to sit up. His pant leg seeped through with blood, and he clenched his hand over the wound, swearing. Rummaging through his pockets with his free hand, he found his e-Fund card was missing, as well as his baton and the dealer’s card and bill of sale. A rat crawled near his foot, and he kicked out at it, but regretted it instantly as another flash of pain rose.
“Scotch,” Nero said, scanning his e-Fund card on the reader as the bartender crouched down, bringing up a small glass. Nero took it and found a seat in the corner of the room, at a table with a man passed out, snoring loudly with his shirt stained with beer and an unlit cigarette in his hand. Nero took the cigarette, lighting it and taking a sip of his drink. Now to wait. The baton lied across his lap, his right hand staying clenched on the handle.
Half an hour passed, and Nero feared he had misjudged his timing, but it dissipated quickly as he saw his target enter. The man was tall, reasonably handsome, with slightly graying hair. He was one of the many cannabis suppliers, and made a large amount of money by selling his product to the bar and pub owners, who in turn sold it to their patrons. He was dressed luxuriously, with a long, navy blue shoulder cape and tall, immaculate boots. Nero stood slowly, pretending to stretch, and watched the man take a seat at the bar, talking with the fat bartender. Walking casually through the crowd of patrons, Nero waited until he was a metre away before striking. He went for the neck, bringing the baton down viciously, then struck the man’s hand as he fell, feeling a finger crack with the impact. Suddenly, Nero was hit from behind, and he stumbled over the pot dealer, nearly falling over as he turned around. A brute of a man growled at him, holding a chair with which he had struck Nero. With a shout, the man charged, and Nero sidestepped, knocking the man to his knees with the baton, then struck him square in the face, causing him to fall to the floor with a heavy thud. The pot dealer was now sitting up, clutching his hand and looking at Nero with a look of complete hatred.
“You idot! Do you know who I am!? Soon my me-” The man’s voice was cut off as Nero struck him across the face, snarling as he did so. Pulling a blade from his coat, Nero cut the man’s tongue out, stuffed the blade away, and then quickly rifled through the man’s pockets. He found a bill of sale and an e-Fund card, and walked out, his mission accomplished. He was about to consider the night a success when he was met with four men standing out in the street, all holding long blades that crackled with electricity. Obviously they were the pot dealer’s men, and they did not seem pleased to see Nero. Nero turned and ran, splashing through a puddle. He heard shouts behind him, and the report of a gunshot. Nero fell into a gutter. He heard muffled voices, and another shot. Both shots went unnoticed in the slums of Vancouver, and Nero’s vision faded.
Nero awoke to a hell of pain and delirium. He lied face down in the pitch black, feeling the rain fall on his back and seep down his neck. He let out an audible groan, and tried to lift himself. A shock of pain flared up his back, and he laid still once more. Trying again, he managed to turn himself onto his side, then back. Wincing with pain, he used one last effort to sit up. His pant leg seeped through with blood, and he clenched his hand over the wound, swearing. Rummaging through his pockets with his free hand, he found his e-Fund card was missing, as well as his baton and the dealer’s card and bill of sale. A rat crawled near his foot, and he kicked out at it, but regretted it instantly as another flash of pain rose.
