The Rusted Blade

"So do you think you can manage it?"

"I may be a bit rusty, but my blade is still sharp."

*****

Jack walked into the smoky bar and scanned the room. His mark was easy to spot, seated with half a dozen men, drinking and laughing. No doubt the man was plenty drunk.

Jack went over to him and struck up a conversation.

"Excuse me," he asked. "Do you happen to have the time?"

"Of course," said the man. "It's about 12:15."

Jack thanked the man, then sat down next to him. He ordered his usual drink, a bloody mary with a splash of pickle juice. He sipped it, enjoying the hint of spice mingling with dill. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his pipe, an old corncob that he had carved when he was just a kid. He packed it with tobacco, took out a book of matches.

He struck the match. Its light was like a small nova in the dark bar. His vision went white for a moment and he thought of his earlier years. He had been reckless back then. Time had a way of tempering even the most stubborn of steels, and Jack was much harder now. Much more refined. Sharp.

"You seem to be lost in thought," came a voice. It was the man. He was looking at Jack with a smile on his face. "Remembering an old girlfriend, perhaps?"

Jack grinned. "No," he said. "Just thinking about how much things change with time."

"I see. When I was a boy in my homeland, we used to run and play on the streets. We used to run naked in the rain to clean off," said the man. His face beamed at the thought, but then grew sad. "Now though, there is too much violence. I hate to admit it sometimes, but people like me don't help the situation."

"How do you mean," asked Jack, taking another sip of his drink.

"I used to just be a kid trying to have fun, with dreams of being president or maybe a spaceman. But things change," he said. "Now I run a gang with its fingers in just about everything."

The man paused and took a drink. "I wanted to be one of the good guys," he continued. "Now I'm one of the worst."

Jack sat quietly, drinking. He looked at the man with pity in his eyes. Jack was a good actor.

"So much for dreams," said the man.

Jack gave a slow, understanding nod of his head. He drained the rest of bloody mary and placed the empty glass on the table. He tapped his pipe clean and put it away, leaving his hand in his pocket.

Standing up, he placed his other hand on the man's shoulder in a gentle, reassuring manner. The man looked up and gave him a sad smile.

"So much for dreams," said Jack.

With that, his other hand came out of his pocket and he began to walk away. The movement was quick as he silently thrust the blade of his knife into the man's neck, severing his jugular and vocal chords in one swipe. He quickly extracted the blade, wiping it clean on the man's shoulder then pocketing it while continuing to walk away.

The man slumped over onto the bar. It would be mere moments before one of his party noticed that their friend wasn't passed out drunk. Moments before they would notice the blood.

All Jack needed was moments.

"So much for dreams," Jack said as he exited the bar and headed off into the darkness.

It had been years since his last consultation. He was a bit rusty, but he was still quite sharp.