Whiskey, On The Rocks

Prologue

The man stands in the alleyway below you. You can see him clearly, but he doesn't know he is being watched. This makes it all the more pleasurable for you.

He takes out a cigar and strikes a match, lighting up and taking a drag. You wonder when his friend will get here. His friend, Omar, was a pimp who sold out prostitutes for a low price. Since he had the best deals on the market, he was insanely rich.

You zone back in just at the right time to see Omar coming down from the other side of the street. The man smirks and blows some smoke from his cigar before leaning against the brick wall.

They start to speak. What about, you don't know. You are too far away from them to hear. What you do know is that your hand is already reaching for ammo in it's protecting pocket.

You load as quiet as you can. The ammo clicks into place perfectly. You close the bolt and make sure your aim is precise.

It is.

You close in on the pimp, making sure the crosshairs are right above his ear.

You close your eyes and breathe out the air from your lungs. The gun stabilizes, and you open your eyes again.

The silencer on your gun does its job as Omar falls to the ground. You stand quickly, looking down on his friend. You then pack up your rifle and climb down the ladder on the opposite side of the building, making sure no one saw you.

You make it to your car in time. As you drive away, a crowd starts to form in the distance. Not that you care. You finally did your job.

You don't care, though. You never really did. Civilians were all right, you don't think you'd ever kill one of them... But the drug lords, gang members, pimps, and criminals? They don't deserve your mercy. You only go after the people who do wrong. Not that you don't do wrong. You justify your work by saying "I've done the world good by ridding of this criminal." Not even the police could do your job right. You stalk like a predator, and wait until just the right moment. You wire their homes and popular hangout spots and listen in on their conversations. After you do your job, you cut off the connection and leave the wires for somebody else to find.

You were perfect.

But after a long day at work, you wind down with a glass of whiskey at the bar.

You open the front door. Warmth and happiness hits you like a slap in the face.

"Hey Grillbz," you say as you sit at the bar.

Grillby slightly waves to you as he wipes down a glass.

"What would you like today, ma'am?" A man in front of you asks. You look to your right. There, standing in a white dress shirt and a forest green vest, is a young man. His name tag reads Alex.

"Hey Alex," you say. "Could you just get me a glass of whiskey? House over the rocks, please."

"No problem," he says. "I'll need to see your ID, though."

You fish through your pockets and pull out your driver's license. You hand it to him.

"Hmm..." He reads your name and date of birth out loud. "Okay, miss. I'll go get you your whiskey."