The key to cat and mouse is not letting the mouse know you are a cat; smile, use an even low voice, maybe even buy the trash a drink. I always order a scotch neat. It consistently arrives in a thick low ball that provides a nice crack, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
"Hey, boss, this seat taken?" I hunch my shoulders to hide my burly 6'4" frame and dip my eyes down to give the impression of submission.
"Free country," his voice slithered from his thin, cracked lips before he takes a long pull from his cheap beer. The toxic mix of crappy beer seeping from his pores mixes with his aura of complete uselessness.
"You look familiar... you from around here?" I flick one side of my mouth up to offer a flash of a settling smile.
"Oh, I'm the luckiest man alive, been on the news and everything," he smiles to his drink.
"You don't say; you win a scratcher or something," I take a small sip of my scotch as the bartender gives me a pleading look to disengage, but I need my confirmation.
"Just got out of prison. They tried me for beating some dumb bitch, but spelled my fucking name wrong." A noxious laugh slipped from between his yellow teeth before he took another long pull from his beer.
"Oh, right, Peter Fields."
"That's my name; with an S... a glorious S." He set his empty pint glass down and nodded to the bartender for another.
"So," I lowered my voice and tipped my smile to that of a conspirator, "did you do it?"
"What? Beat the bitch? Sure did; had it coming to her too..."
This is where I stop listening. Villains don't have backstories. Decisive movements cut. They start and finish before most even lift their eyes. My hand slips to the clammy skin on the back of his neck, pulling his face down on the thick glass of my low ball. I never drink much. I like to think the alcohol mixes with the deep gash and adds another layer of pain.
The look of sputtering comes next, assuming I haven't misjudged and knocked him entirely unconscious. I like the panic, the grasping for an understanding of the situation. Oh, and Peter sputters. This is when a hero would stop, tie him to a chair, and have the cops called. His confession to me could probably warrant a retrial. But I'm no legal expert, nor do I care for paperwork. And I'm not a hero.
I cock my head as I inspect Peter. He is speaking, but the pounding in my ears drowns out the words. His stool falls out from behind him, causing his feet to stumble as he tries to scamper away from me. He knows he is looking into the eyes of death. My hand reaches into my coat to find the soothing cool of my gun while my finger settles into its home on the trigger.
There is a moment before a person dies that their eyes grow wide. That's pretty universal. Hands are the wild card. Some see the flash of light bouncing from the metal of my gun and cover their face. It's humorous, really; a bullet would rip through the delicate flesh and bone of a hand like a knife through warm butter. Peter reaches towards me, waving his hands. If I cared to listen to his words, I'm sure he'd be screaming no, possibly even shouting his redeeming qualities. I don't care; I just squeeze. I love the kick of the gun as it surges up my arm. It's the feeling of success as Peter slumps to the floor. Blood pools fast.
