Meeting the Joker

[Zapp]

In one of the many holed-out hovels of Barrier Gate, smoke filling the air and loud noises washing over the passerby and drifters, a man died. It was a quiet thing, no one even noticed at first. An older man, in his fifties, had walked in carrying a rather large suitcase. He sat it down in the farthest corner from the door and looked at the man sitting there. It was a quarter-circle booth, with a small table in the middle, a relaxing place for some friends to gather and sit on a cushioned chair with a defined focal point. The older man sat down nonchalantly to the right of the man, who seemed to be in his twenties. He was scruffy, as if he hadn't shaved -- or slept -- in a few days. He began to look over at the newcomer, but his head didn't have time to complete the turn. The older man grabbed his right bicep with his left hand and forced the open palm of his right hand against the stomach of the man.

A gasp of breath escaped his mouth, and his eyes rolled up into the back of his head. A small trickle of blood began to drip from his stomach as the older man removed his palm. He wore a bracelet on his right forearm, with a poison-tipped needle that would protrude at the flick of his wrist.

He didn't bother to hold the man up, who fell forward onto the table: dead.

As mentioned earlier, no one noticed at first. It wasn't uncommon for people to pass out in this place, but some had caught a glimpse of the brief exchange. The older man sat there like the world was his, as if he hadn't just committed murder with no provocation, no remorse. The bar was his. People began to whisper, only a few at first: "Oh my God, is he dead?" Someone went to the bartender. The older man noticed it all, but paid it no mind. He had an appointment, and the time was drawing nearer. A flash of recognition from across the room, and someone scraped back a chair and ran out of the room.

The bartender, a lean man, walked up and looked at the body.

"What's wrong with him?" he asked, looking dubious.

"I killed him." The older man said it with a firm and unyielding voice, as if it was of no consequence and it was in the right.

"What? Why?" Tremor of fear, flash of outrage.

"Because I can. Because if you know what's best for you, you'll walk back to serving drinks, and bring me over a Liberty Ale. On the house."

He started as if to say "Like hell I will," then took a closer look at the older man's eyes. They were the eyes of a barely contained wolf, of a man with few scruples and fewer restraints. He gulped and took a step back. "Who are you?" the bartender whispered.

"They call me Iscariot."

---