How the frog took him...

°Chapter 1

Industrial grey 6528.

Red: 44%

Blue: 44%

Green: 44%

"Only five more minutes!" the bounty hunter asked the sailor when he informed him that the ship was at its destination. The image of the mirror horrified the frog, but he was alive. That was all that mattered. He had been dressed in a casual shirt and wore the black trousers of a suit. He was also given thin black gloves to compensate for his missing nails. After so many years of torture, he was offered gloves. He had deserved it, he was fully aware of that. Nothing could make up for all that had been done. The middle parting was in place. The curly black hair had been washed, but you could see the many years of imprisonment on it: dry and emotionless. On the table lay a packed bag, which now attracted all the frog's attention. With heavy steps he approached the table. In the bag were rations, money, a letter with more detailed data of the victim and an ID. Sceptically, he turned the card several times in his hand and noticed that instead of a false name, it had his real one written on it.

"Mirco Hansen," he spoke softly into the void. As if he first had to remember the sound again. When was the last time he was addressed like that? It must have been years ago. Possibly his mother called him that when he was leaving for his own adventure. He wanted to be free. But the hard ground of reality quickly caught up with him. How naïve he was. Outside, dusk was already falling as the ship docked in London harbour. In the crowd the bounty hunter disappeared and it seemed as if he was an insignificant normal. For a fragile second, he felt that way too. Politically correct, he ran to the next best hotel and dutifully paid for exactly 7 nights. It was not his money, so he was indifferent to it. Once in the room, he found peace for the first time in ages. He was in his element again. This was his destiny. This was what he was born for. He lay down in bed and reached for the letter. He hadn't looked through it once since signing the contract. 

He was too focused on the last line: 

One last murder and it's all over.

Mirco wasn't stupid. Otherwise he would never have got this far. He was aware that this could not be all. But every second in freedom was a gift and was worth living for. No matter what the cost. 

He would fight for it.

N a m e:                                        Dean Whiteford

A g e:                                              20 

R e s i d e n c e:                          Unknown

L a s t        S t a y:                        Mathews' bar, London

That was all the information given. In itself, the case was no different from others: It was asked to get all the information about the shelter, then kill him.

Simple.

The reason why this gentleman would welcome death he did not know. Still with his shoes and clothes on, he fell asleep with the plan to visit this bar tomorrow. No officials were standing in front of the bar, which was admittedly very untypical. After all, the origin of people should be checked everywhere at all times. When he entered the bar, a lovely smell of fresh pastries mixed with exotic fruits enveloped him. All in all, it bore no resemblance to an ordinary bar. It lacked smoke, high humidity, sweat and hostility. Innocent was probably the right word for it. As if this place was shielded from all the atrocities of recent years. Slightly irritated, Mirco walked purposefully to the bar and sat down.

"What will it be for you, sir?", asked a young lady with brown braided hair.

After much musing, the frog replied, "Knowledge."

"Well, I'm happy to serve you with that. Are you something like a policeman?", she gave a short mocking laugh, "Stupid question. No policeman in his right mind would come into a bar so uptight and ask for information. What do you want to know?"

"Do you know a guy called Dean Whiteford? I understand he's been in here recently."

"You don't know Dean?" the lady began to speak again, "Then I guess you really aren't from around here. He didn't show his face yesterday, but everyone in this neighbourhood should know him. What do you want with him?" 

The woman rested her arms relaxed on the counter with her eyes radiating pure inquisitiveness, always watching the guest.

"Counter question: where does he live?"

Now the landlady clenched her fists and cried out indignantly:

"Who do you think I am anyway? I'm not a snitch, I'm a friend of Dean's. I know that his way of life at these times could cost him his life. Don't expect me to lead him to the scaffold."

"As you wish, miss. It is very commendable to stand up for the safety of friends and of course I respect that. If you change your mind, feel free to call me. Thank you for your attention."

The frog got up from the bar stool, placed a five dollar note on the table with a number card and left the cosy bar, even though he would have liked to stay there longer and taste all the drinks as well as food. A short time later, Mirco strolled through the streets and quickly realised that he was being followed. He had worked as a hunter from an early age, so it was no great talent for him. The pursuer was clumsy and not at all professional. No dangerous aura was emitted. Mirco decided to stop after much thought. An elderly gentleman with a nose far too big, drunk and smelly was standing in front of him. He was already in Matthew's bar and observed the previous conversation.

"Are you here to finally get rid of this bunch of fags?" the grandpa whispered.

"Excuse me?"

"By Mary," Mirco didn't know any Mary. He simply drew a conclusion from loose connections and thought of the bartender.

"You mean Dean Whiteford?"

"All the same faggot pack. God left them, you must know. I don't have long, but if you're acting on behalf of the Purge, I'll be happy to assist you. 8 Addle Street, that's where the leader of these vermin lives. Disgusting, isn't it? God take care of you!"

And away went the old geezer. Slightly perplexed, Mirco continued on his way, but now he had a clue. It was almost too easy to be true...

No matter whether it would bring him closer to his victim or whether the informant was just an old, demented deranged man.

It had to be one or the other.