Date: Sat, 20 Mar 2010 14:21:07 -0600
From: Katya_Dee <concertoind@gmail.com>
Subject: Specter's Gamble, chapter 1

This is a work of fiction; all the resemblances are completely accidental. I
am the one who owns all the ideas and characters in the story. Contains
violence and descriptive sexual scenes between two males. If you are not
supposed to read it, don't do so.

				   - I -

      Desmond sucked on his cigarette lazily, his entire posture completely
relaxed, eyes half-closed. He was watching his mark for the last hour or
two, and it seemed like the playboy was about to leave finally. Usually
Desmond didn't bother with cases like this one; he could care less about
scorned lovers' affairs. This one, however, paid more than enough, so he
took the case. The woman who hired him (of course, it was a woman! A man
would've just shot the son of a bitch point-blank without hiring an
assassin) has made it clear that she wanted this "...piece-of-rat-shit" to
die as painfully as possible. Desmond considered that for a few seconds. He
wasn't going to torture the guy (not because it went against his principles,
but simply because when you torture someone, the entire affair is ought to
become quite messy, therefore, there will be inevitable traces left),
neither would he take his chances with arranging some bizarre accident
(those were opt to go wrong). That left poison. Desmond was fine with that.
He knew his poisons well.

   He was supposed to take care of this tonight - that was also specified by
his contractor. Apparently, the third of February had some deep meaning to
the woman. Desmond didn't care. He was, however, getting more and more
annoyed with the fact that the playboy wouldn't leave the damn tavern. In
the last several hours, Desmond had enough coffee to drown himself in; he
kept on ordering countless refills, which made him a customer, therefore he
wouldn't be kicked out of the tavern. He wasn't worrying that someone might
identify him later. First of all, there was no way anyone would be able to
even connect him to the mysterious illness of Mr. Pain-In-the-Ass, and
second of all, Desmond was good at being just another face in the crowd. In
fact, he was better than good. He hemmed to himself softly. That was
probably one of the reasons he was on the top of the list when it came to
his line of work. Also, it was probably one of the reasons he was still
alive.

   The playboy was on his way out and Desmond got up smoothly, leaving a
couple of crumpled up bills on the table. Just enough not to be remembered
like a cheap asshole, but not enough to become a great tipper either. He
walked outside, ignoring the chilly wind, and made his way towards the
playboy, who was smoking while waiting for his car to arrive. Desmond ducked
his head down against the wind, the hood of his thick shirt successfully
hiding his face, and pulled his hand out of the pocket. He was close enough
to his mark now; so close that he could smell the man's aftershave. The
playboy gave him a very bored look and turned away.

   Desmond started walking across the street when he tripped on the metal
grid covering the rain duct. His arm shot forward and he grabbed onto the
smoking man's wrist, to keep himself from falling. The playboy was caught
completely by surprise and he dropped his cigarette.

   "What the hell?!" he yelled out when he almost lost his balance as well.

   Desmond quickly drew his hand back, twisting the ring on his finger.

   "Sorry, man!" he said and raised both palms up in a
`Please-Forgive-Clumsy-Me' gesture.

   "Watch where the hell you are going!" the man snapped irritably.

   "Sorry," Desmond said again and walked away, blending into the crowd
almost instantly.

   He knew that the guy never even noticed a weak prick on his wrist, and
even if he did, he would forget all about it in a couple of minutes. An hour
or so later, he'll be writhing in pain so horrible that he won't remember
his own name, let alone some clumsy idiot who bumped into him on the
sidewalk. He'd be dead by midnight, just as Desmond's contractor wanted. He
will go through two or three hours of agony at the most, but Desmond knew
for sure that those hours would seem like eternity to him.

   He made his way to the phone booth and dropped several coins into the
slot. He didn't have to look for the phone number; it was imprinted in his
memory. Desmond never had any problems with remembering things -- numbers,
words, addresses, you name it. He had to look at something only once, and it
would be stored in his memory forever. He considered it a gift.

   "Done," he said shortly into the receiver after he heard a `click' on the
other end of the line. "Finish the transfer."

   He didn't wait for the answer and replaced the receiver in the cradle. He
knew that the rest of his payment would be transferred into one of his
accounts if not immediately, then very soon -- he wasn't worrying about that.
He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and frowned when he realized
he only had two left. He tutted with slight annoyance, remembering that he
was smoking pretty much nonstop for the last two hours. After shoving one of
the remaining cigarettes into his mouth, he shrugged to himself. There was a
smoke shop on the way to his current apartment, these two cigarettes will
last him until he gets there.

   It was almost twenty minutes later, and Desmond could see the dim
flickering light of the smoke shop's sign. He shoved his hand into his
pocket and that was when he suddenly felt extremely uneasy. He couldn't tell
what it was, but something was off, all right. The other reason that he was
still alive was the fact that Desmond's instincts never betrayed him, and in
return, he never ignored them. Something was wrong, and it didn't matter
what it was.

   He ducked and twisted around at the same time -- that was the only reason
the first blow got him on the shoulder instead of his head. "That would
crack my skull open," he thought almost indifferently and dropped into a
crouch, his left leg shooting forward. This trick worked almost always --
people usually did not see it coming, and as a result, they were knocked off
their feet, to Desmond's advantage. Yes, this trick worked almost always.
There were exceptions though; like this one. Desmond's attacker avoided the
kick with surprising ease and even grace. Then he landed a kick of his own
onto Desmond's kneecap. Pain exploded immediately; it was like a case of
dynamite charged with glass went off in Desmond's leg and quickly floated
into the rest of his body. He grunted and tried to get up, but the pain
incapacitated him for several seconds. He saw his attacker raise his arm
again and tried to duck aside, but he was a second too late. The arm swung
in a perfect arch and then something collided with the top of Desmond's
head. For a second, everything around him exploded brilliant white and then
the world became pitch-black.