The Instruction

“All sales are final!” the shop keeper yelled after him as the jingle announced his departure from the second-hand shop. He shrugged and felt the leather bomber-jacket gripping his shoulders tightly. It was satisfying.

What a steal for twenty-bucks, he thought.

Strolling down the sidewalk, something jostled free underneath, jabbing into his ribs as he walked. He paused on the busy street-corner, drawing down the zipper.

Amused befuddlement adorned his face. He fished a worn envelope from an inside pocket he had not thoroughly inspected. Delicately opening the flap, he removed a photograph.

The polaroid depicted a dark-haired man with studious glasses in a compromised position; sprawled naked on a hotel-bed, arm draped over a younger, unclad mistress.

The nightstand was littered with empty liquor bottles and lines of powder. They appeared to be asleep in their embrace, no doubt comatose from the binge of lust and vice.

That’s embarrassing, he mused.

He turned the photograph over, spying writing on the backside; the cursive scrawl was neatly feminine. His eyes grew wider with each syllable as he mouthed the words silently.

“I want the bastard dead, his bitch too. Check drop for payment. However you get it done is fine. If the cash is gone tomorrow, I’ll assume you got this instruction and accepted.”

Still processing the morbid message, an unexpected tap on his shoulder sent him into orbit.

Turning, he found himself face to face with a monster of a man; tall, muscular, and bald, with eyes gray as ice. Well groomed, he wore a tailored, tight-fitting suit. His professional facade belied the lethality underneath.

He could see it in those eyes; calculating and cruel. He was reminded of the lifeless look of a shark as its eyes rolled back mid-bite.

“I believe you have my jacket,” he said coldly.