Prologue

Prologue

   Though the back streets of the city harbored criminals of all kinds, I kept my distance from the masquerade of insanity and blood. The bar smelled of Marlboro cigarettes and cheap beer. I sat slumped drinking a glass of Crown Royale, over ice of course. The target had walked in unsatisfied. His day must have been unproductive observing the way he strode in, stomping and thrashing about with the expression of discontent and hatred. He came and sat next to me. Part of me felt that this had been too easy. Then again a contract was my paycheck so I let the doubts slip my mind and focused on the task at hand. The serated edge of my knife brushed against my palm making its eerie presence known. I held the cold steel in my palm until the precious metal matched the heat of my palm. I looked over at the man and smiled while asking, "Would you like a drink kind sir? You seem flustered." The man looked at me with an expression of relief and replied, "Yes sir, that would be most pleasant." 

Nodding at the bartender, I asked him, "Would you please give this good man a drink?" The bartender acknowledged the order and replied, "Yes, and what would the good man like?" The man turned to his left only to meet the edge of the serated knife against his throat. He sputtered, "What the hell are you doing?" I smiled and slowly added pressure to the knive's edge. The tension in the room dissipated when i asked the question, "Who are you working for and where are they?" The certain familiarity of this mans face intrigued me, as if I've seen him before. But that didn't matter now for I needed his information and he knew if he didn't give it over that he would die very shortly. I applied more pressure to the knife, drawing a thin line of blood from his throat. He winced at the slight sting of the wound but understood that it was nothing fatal. I asked in a darker tone, "Who are you working for?" I pushed deeper into the thin flesh of his throat, now turning the small wound into something a little more serious. He started to let out small gasps of pain and I noticed a small line of blood leak from the corner of his mouth. I hit him with the back of the knife with enough force to severely injure him, but not enough to kill him. He screamed until he was gasping for air. I yanked his hair back and yelled, "Who is he?!" After catching his breath he eventually spoke, "His name is Zero." I hit him again, this time with my fist against his temple. He yelled out in pain and frustration. I asked again, "Really now, who is he?" The man answered, "He goes by Zero, i swear it! He lives off of Bradbury Avenue and Southern Street." "Why thank you." A swift snap and his entire body went limp, I hadn't broken a neck in a while, I miss the feeling. I walked out with Arthur, my butler, fronting as a bartender. This was the beginning of bloodshed and fear. This was the time the Night's Game would end.