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I write stuff now and then. Find me online at http://therustedinkblot.blogspot.com/.

Poisoned Intention

November 17, 2017

When the killer didn't show up, Henry took a bath.
Henry liked baths. They were relaxing, and possibly intoxicating. The latter was weird, but he never really questioned it. He didn't question a lot of things, Henry. Questions made folks uncomfortable. Instead, he smiled. Smiling was nice, and it always made people like you more, which was particularly helpful when you were covered in blood like he was. Hence the bath, you see.
It was quite an interesting situation. His client had paid him to intercept the killer, and stop him. “Stop” wasn’t really defined, but Henry took it to mean “kill”. There was a certain poetic justice to it. The killer be killed, he assassin assassinated. Of course, he hadn’t shown up yet, and Henry was getting nervous. He stared at his reflection in the mirror before him. The rich yellow light of the bathroom washed his face, bouncing off the marble tub and hardwood floors. This really was a fancy hotel. There was also his face, which was always nice. Well, aside from the blood. The blood was problematic. Henry yawned. He lathered his face in soap, massaging thoroughly. The delicious scent wafted up his nose, masking the horror that was his body odor. It smelled like roses and apple pie, just like his mother used to make. The soap, not the body odor. He stood up, turning on the shower and letting the hot stream wash away the sweat and grime. And blood. An awful lot of blood. He smirked at his reflection and marveled at the gorgeousness staring back at him. How beautiful.
The doorbell rang. About damn time. That must be the killer, of course. Henry leaped out the tub, toweling off and throwing on some clothes. He leaped out of the bathroom and into the main suite, snatching a knife and fork off the nearest table. This should be fun.
“Room service!”
Room service, my ass. Henry took a deep breath and waltzed toward the door, swinging it open. A French waiter stared back at him, bearing a tray with a cheeseburger. His frame was skinny, and his face boasted a finely manicured mustache. The waiter thrust the tray toward him. What a blasphemous travesty. He would never order a cheeseburger. Henry smiled. “Come on in.” The waiter frowned at the cutlery in his hand., but eventually bowed his bead and stepped into the suite. Henry quietly shut the door behind him. The waiter set the tray on the table, his dress shoes clip-clopping over the floor. He gestured toward the large window in the wall. The city of Paris had still not slept. “You would like to close the curtains, yes? For the privacy?”
Henry rolled his eyes. “Well, obviously.”
The waiter drew the curtains and retreated towards the door. Henry frowned. What game was the playing? He was obviously the killer. The waiter smiled. “Enjoy your meal, sir.”
“Uh, what?”
The waiter's eyes widened, and he suddenly gave a small shriek. He pointed wildly at my right arm, shaking like a stick. “Your arm! It is covered in blood!”
Henry frowned. “Uh, this?” He laughed. “Oh no, that’s, uh, ketchup. Yeah. There was a…um… condiment incident.”
The waiter screamed wildly and wrenched open the door. He ran out the suite, tears streaming down his face. “POLICE! Please, police!”
Henry’s eyes widened. He heard footsteps in the distance. He took a step back and dropped the surgery he still had in his hand. This was not good. He glanced at the window. The footsteps were getting louder, and this time he might not escape. He quickly locked the door shut and ran towards the window. He swept the curtains open and unlocked the window, swinging it open. He climbed out, his hands shaking. This was not expected, nor was it good. He had not been trained for this. Not, it was not good. So very not good!
He glanced down. He was dropping on a garden, about two floors up. He squeezed his eyes shut and jumped.
Pain shot through his body. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Henry hobbled to his feet, clutching his probably shattered ankle. The wall was right there. If he could climb out, he could escape…
“Don’t move.”
Henry’s eyes widened. The air felt thin as a knife’s edge. He turned around slowly, blinking away the tears still in his eyes and staring right down the barrel of a handgun, and the eyes of a heavyset man with green eyes.
His client.
He’d been set up.


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  • November 17, 2017 - 6:54am (Now Viewing)

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