I dropped the pill into my whisky glass and swirled the drink in my hand. It truly was a sight of beauty as it slowly fizzled back to the surface before finally exploding into a cloud of white and mixing with the orange liquid. Beautiful. I knocked the elixir back and waited for its glorious effects to swarm throughout my body. I could already feel my stomach walls complaining, but another whisky would silence that.
I rubbed my temples and looked at the clock on the wall behind the bar. The contact should be here soon. How many times had I sat in Milton's Bar waiting to meet a new contact? Too many, I guess, but what else am I going to do with my time? Retire! Don't be fooled by the name Milton's, it sounds posh, perhaps it once was, but nothing could be further from the truth now. The décor would actually benefit from a small explosion and so would the atmosphere.
I don't know what made me first choose this shithole bar, but it served a purpose and soon became my unofficial office. The bar staff recognise me, remember my order and leave me well alone. It's a shame that some of the other patrons don't do the same. It seems as though Milton's is the place for Happy Hour, although in this case hour is pronounced whore. Nowadays it seems as if every grandma, mother and daughter are plying their wares on the street… some customers would pay premium rate for that family trio.
"Are you married, handsome?" Fucking prostitutes…I guess they have to eat, but they just don't have any sense of private space. Fuck it! "I used to be, but she's dead now." Cue the sympathetic look. "Yeah, I caught her screwing around behind my back, so I melted down my wedding ring, made it into a bullet and then shot her with it." Sympathetic look evaporates. "Really?!" Damn, they are gullible too.
"No, if I had a wife and if I was going to cheat on her, then I wouldn't choose a whore. Second, I wouldn't choose somebody that would even make a blind man shudder in antipathy. Now fuck off and find a dictionary." Yeah, a hit man with a fucking vocabulary, how about that! I weighed the glass in my hand and looked back at the clock, where was this so-called demigod_943876?
Yeah, demigod_943876! What the hell sort-of handle is that? I hope to fuck that the number doesn't mean that there were 943,875 other sad bastards believing themselves to be a demigod. They probably have no concept of just what a demigod is, but just thought the word sounded stylish. Oh well, perhaps demigod_943876 truly has some of those demigod qualities, although I would happily settle for fucking punctuality.
I could feel the effects of the pill and whisky moving through my body, easing the tension and headache that had dogged me for days. Usually I have a break between jobs, let me body readjust its adrenaline levels, but something about demigod_943876's contact had piqued my interest, so I decided to at least meet with them.
At that moment the door to Milton's opened and in walked, what can only be described as, a demigoddess. The bar's volume dropped to silent as each patron turned their attention to this vision starkly contrasted against the misery of Milton's - for one moment the bar actually had an element of class thanks to her presence. She was dressed in a black cloak that clung, rather than hung, to her body and her alabaster face was framed by a black hood. However, it was her translucent eyes that held you spellbound and left you feeling powerless.
Some idiot dropped a glass and the spell was broken, the bar volume returned to normal. The woman instinctively looked in my direction and met my gaze, she removed her hood and walked over to my table. "Are you Michigan Jones?" I composed myself with another shot of whisky, "Yeah, but please call me Mitch. Are you demigod_943876?" She nodded and seemed to relax a little. "Please take a seat," I said gesturing to the chair opposite. "Would you like a drink?" She was silent for a moment and turned her translucent eyes upon me, "No, I would like you to kill me."
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