How the frog took him...

°Chapter 2

Grass green 6010.

Red: 30%

Green: 44%

Blue: 22%

The bounty hunter spent a long time looking for the street in question. Passers-by were already starting to look at him askance when a soldier finally managed to give him an answer.

"Addle Street, you say? Well, it's not far from here. Just keep on this street, then turn left and next to a pharmacy exists a really small side alley. That would be your destination. Be careful though, such a noble and wealthy young gentleman like you can quickly hit a dead end there."

After formally thanking him, Mirco continued his journey, according to the description. There was a surprising amount of activity in said back alley. Small pubs, whorehouses and shop windows with real scantily clad men and women. Even if he couldn't clearly identify the sex of some of them. This was a completely different world and he had asked a distinguished soldier about this dirty street. Embarrassment was written all over his face. His complexion turned almost as red as the lights in the shop windows. Then No. 8 no longer fitted into the overall picture. Everything here was sexualised and this little house seemed just as conspicuous with lights but without merely ambiguity. Normal would be an exaggeration, but decent. The house was painted a soft shade of blue and wooden beams tried to hold it all together. Clover with fairy lights snaked around the facade. A few hookers stood outside the door, but none of them seemed to live in it. 

Just in case, Mirco had already equipped himself with a number of throwing knives, but he had no intention of taking this Dean down today. For the pretended contract would not have its desired end this way. The hunter's plan for his prey looked more like him than simply killing on it anyway. The prostitutes began to rage and because of this the frog ran back to the hotel room without even bothering to ring the bell. Now he knew the victim's place of refuge. Where he sleeps. With such info, he had already wrapped the fly. Now he would just squeeze the needed locations of the others out of her and then it was finally over. Maybe he could even meet his mother again. Absurd wish, he probably wouldn't even dare.

"Dean Whiteford", he whispered into the darkness, "I'm going to get you". 

The next day, Mirco sat down on the ground in Addle Street. He bought his clothes from a beggar and rolled around in the dirt with the greatest pleasure, which he would never admit. He was more than indifferent to the horror of others. Until evening, the house was neither entered nor left. Suddenly, at exactly 10.03 pm, a figure left the house in the dark. 

Bursting with joy and hunger, having kept vigil all day without eating, he began his pursuit. Always in the shadows of darkness, he scurried after until the masked victim entered an all too familiar shop: Matthew's Bar. The stranger brushed off his coat. He was of tall but slender build and wore beige trousers with braces and a white shirt. He could not yet make out the face from a distance, but soon he would know that too. Whoever this person was, he was definitely in contact with Whiteford.

The hunter ran rapidly back to the hotel where he was getting ready. The distance between the accommodation and the bar was considerably short, but after 5 years of prison and torture, one had to admit to having lost some of one's athleticism. A little sweaty, he entered the bar and made sure to watch his feet throughout. Wearing brown trousers and a white shirt with a brown gilet, he felt sane, but his round glasses were a bit too big and had to be adjusted. He sat down a bar stool away from the person who was fortunately still there. 

Mary, as the bounty hunter had recently learned from the old maniac, was polishing some glasses. Looking at her from the corner of his eye, Mirco realised for the first time that the gentleman next to him had grass-green hair. He had never seen anything like it before and was accordingly gobsmacked. 

All the hair in general was already sticking out rather wildly and on top of that such a colour? Thoughts circled in the frog's head: How did this happen? 

Was it intentional? 

Why green? 

Has he taken leave of his senses?

In his excitement, the bounty hunter on mission did not even realise that the green-haired man had turned away from reading the newspaper and addressed him. An agitated 

"Sir?" finally snapped him out of the circling tornado. Caught off guard, he began to stammer, not having expected a confrontation so soon, "I beg your pardon?" he tried quietly to catch up with what he had overheard. 

The man opposite him began to grin from ear to ear, "You seem to have gone through something important in your head," now he held out his hand,

"Dean Whiteford, my pleasure."

Horror.

The black-haired man's jaw almost fell off his face, but he didn't let his facial expression show. How tired of life is this fugitive if he just sneaks around at night even though he is wanted? What was the reason for this? Does he have a plan? Or is he possibly just stupid like the piece of bread that was lying on a plate next to him?

He had definitely taken leave of his senses. The whirlpool of thoughts was crumbling again and there was nothing he could do about it. Mirco knew he should talk, but he was afraid that if he opened his mouth now, all the thoughts would spill out. Trapped in prison. The prison of thoughts. No way out. He was never really free and this fact now finally robbed him of his breath. But a professional put on his mask, that was his vocation after all. So he forced his completely dissolved body to shake the victim's hand and whisper with a restrained smile:

"Mirco Hansen."