How the frog took him...

°Chapter 3

Wine red 3005.

Red: 35%

Blue: 12%

Green: 10%

"Why are you here, Mirco?"

Dean turned his body parallel to Mirco's and eyed him intently. A cheeky grin was on the latter's lips. A few seconds to think of his lie and process the sudden dudeness, then the answer, "I moved here for work reasons."

"To the bar?" the person sitting next to him snorted, "Hardly." 

He almost fell off his chair and held his stomach laughing. After a short while, the latter slowly calmed down again and wiped the tears of laughter from his face to finish the attack. 

What was so funny about it? The little black-haired man did not understand at all. He just sat there the whole time, cleaning his glasses on his top. A slight blush of embarrassment rose to his face, but he tried not to come across as too insecure. "No, of course not. I'm staying at a hotel near here at the moment." 

"Where do you work?"

"I'm still looking for a newspaper publisher."

"A journalist? You really are a strange fellow" now he addressed Mary tugging lightly at her sleeve "A glass of wine for my friend please, if you don't mind."

Mary had recognised the frog immediately. Ever since he had entered the bar for the second time. She had been scowling at him for a while, but she did not compromise his identity. Fate stood unflatteringly in her hands, but made no interpretations until now. She left the room briefly, only to return a few seconds later with a bottle of claret wine tucked under her arm. Completely relaxed, the green-haired man turned in a circle on the bar stool while the waitress filled two glasses and set them down for them.

"To our health!"

"No obstacle of stone stops love, what love can do it dares do!" gigged Dean already after a few glasses of wine and other drugs that dulled the senses, "Isn't that funny?"

"Well, I found Romeo and Juliet rather depressing, after all, they both bite the dust towards the end," the bounty hunter replied. He acted as if he had long forgotten what his name was. It was all for show.

"Even Shakespeare had nothing against me! Then why do I have to sneak out of the house at this hour?" 

The bawling would have frightened others, but Mirco found it a fascination. How could this young man, who had been deprived of everything, still feel like laughing?

"Can I ask something naughty?" a nod came from Dean, "Why is your hair green?" 

Dean looked thoughtfully into his wine glass and swirled the contents slightly in a circle: "I'm very interested in science, because if you live like I do, you can't find refuge in God. So when I got wind from a friend that the Romans and Egyptians often dyed their hair, I considered it a challenge, so to speak. Oxidation and stinking normal grasses I then smeared on my hair and I've been doing it ever since," he stretched a finger in the air, "But to be honest the process causes you quite a bit of pain..."

"If it hurts, why do you do it?"

"Well, to make the company stop." 

"With what?"

"You know, I'm really lonely."

Bingo! His cue had come, after hours of waiting, "If you need anyone to talk to, I'm here for you."

"You're really nice to me," the green-haired man pouted, "Are you even allowed to do that, as a noble lord? A lot of people feel mistreated just by me looking at someone."

"What are you talking about?"

"You really are a greenhorn," he grinned, "you'll find out sooner or later, let's see how you look at me then. You should be able to do that as a journalist. But only write positive things about the headline!" 

Bitterness was reflected in the victim's face and he stood up with a jerk: "I'd better go now. I'll be back tomorrow at the same time, you're welcome to come. I like you."

As if he hadn't just drunk ten glasses filled with alcohol, he walked straight out of the pub. The frog sat there completely perplexed. 

What had just happened? He was aware that he himself was highly manipulative, that was just the experience after 7 years of hard and also involuntary work. Of course he had known what Dean was talking about for a long time, but the fact that he spoke about it so openly and casually was astounding. This Whiteford had already been content not to be accepted at the beginning of the conversation. I wonder if it eases the pain so much to loathe oneself. Whatever it was, he had to figure it out. Become the person he trusted and then break his neck. No one would have to know that he was the killer and in the worst case scenario, the bribe still existed even if the death of an open, freedom-seeking homosexual were to be raised in a big way to scare everyone away from this habit. So he will certainly be forced to appear here again tomorrow at the same time, but before that he has to send a short report to Germany.

"Who are you?", Mary broke the silence.

"Mirco Hansen"

"What are you?"

"A human...Look, I mean no harm to Dean okay? Just trust me."

"So I might as well tell him about you asking about him before the meeting?"

"What do you want?"

"A promise that you won't hurt Dean"

"I promise."

"Good."

With those words the last guest left the restaurant. It was not he who would kill Dean, but the gun.

Report of 22 November 1939

Target sighted. Conversation held under cover. No valuable information obtained. Future meeting will build trust. Stay tuned.

Never had Mirco carried such a guilty conscience after such a day. He felt slimy and unkempt like a frog. He knew the reason only too well, but he tried to swallow it. 

Since the first conversation, the two met again every evening in the bar. The conversation always went well and Mary even spoke with a little smile now and then. Dean always made sure there was never an awkward silence. He was a really good speaker. Two weeks passed and Mirco didn't write another report. He tried to block it out, but knew he had to move on to the next phase soon. 

Eyes closed and through.