• It was a slow day in Rust City. The winter snow, though dirty, managed to still the beating heart of the inner-city; stopping the criminal lifeblood but at the same time making business all the more difficult. Ronald Fourier dragged deep on a cigarette and watched the smoke rise up to the ceiling. The room was dark, and smelled like smoke, cheap women, and booze. From the walls hung the various posters of people he admired: Tesla, Patton, and Spiderman. Light from the street filtered in through the venetian blinds, casting long shadows in the otherwise dark room. In the darkness he could make out his bookshelf and gun rack. Overall, it was low-grade decor for a low-grade private investigator. A slight buzzing caught him off guard. He looked around until he found the source. A little fly had perches itself on the ceiling. He once heard a story about how a mathematician came up with the entire concept of coordinates by watching flies on a ceiling. How such people ever became inspired, he'd never know, he thought to himself, for he wasn't a great thinker, some brainy genius. No, he was a PI. A PI in one of the most run-down, seedy cities in his beautiful US of A. God Bless.

    The silent monologue was broken by the sound of soft footsteps coming up the stairs.

    “s**t” he whispered, hoping it wasn't the Canuck and his men looking for some trouble. He reached for his gun and got up, hiding next to the door, ready to jump whoever might be coming in. He knew this would happen eventually, now it was time. The doorknob turns, a bead of sweat drips down his head. The door opens, slowly, and the dark figure walks out. He presses the gun against its head.

    “Hold it” The figure tenses up, afraid to move, let alone speak. “On your knees, hands behind your head, go on” Obliging, the black splotch sits harmless on the ground. “Now, who are you?”
    The figure is shaking, but manages to choke out an answer.
    “B-b-b-Bill. My name is Bill”
    “What do you want here?”

    A click as a switch is turned on, another voice chimes in: “Do you treat every new client like this?” Light floods the room, revealing a women standing up behind Ron, a wizened man in a suit kneeling on the ground, trembling. “Really, you must not have many repeat customers.”

    “Sorry” he mumbled, putting the gun away and walking back to his desk. “Have a seat”. The customers walked over, and took a seat in front of him. The women was about forty, very elegant with a pearl necklace and a red dress that did little to mask her form. Her red hair hung in curls down behind her pale shoulders. The man was less elegant, a small stocky fellow with small reading glasses that hung for dear life off his crooked nose.

    “So, are you Mr. Fourier?” the women inquired, a haughty tone in her voice.
    “It says so on the door, doesn't it?” .
    “We came here looking for...” the man trailed off.
    “ Alternate services” said the red woman.
    “I don't offer anything like that” Ronald snapped.
    “Are you sure about that?” The red woman crooned. “We'll pay you well”
    “It's not about the money.”

    The man placed a briefcase on the table with a heavy thud. He popped it open and swiveled it around, facing Ronald. A few seconds of gawking, and Ronald closed the lid with an affirmative nod.

    “That's half of your reward if you do this properly. All we need you to do is to escort an old friend to a drop off point. When that's done you get your money. No killing.”
    “What's the catch? You wouldn't be paying me this much unless there was a catch.”
    The two visitors looked at each other.
    “We'll double what we're paying you now if you don't ask questions”

    Ron took a long hard drag on his cigarette and blew a smoke-ring into the air. His mind was racing. He needed the money, sure enough. He was already behind on his rent payments, and if he tried to scam the Canuck again he'd end up with broken kneecaps. At the same time, however, this whole situation seemed awfully convenient. He thought back to his college days, how he used to want to become a professor. A professor of woman's studies, no less. He even got his BA. Something he put in his desk drawer, right next to a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of cheap vodka. With the money he could start his education again, and maybe even end up getting out of this rundown office complex.

    “Fine, but I want details, and I want them now”
    A manila folder was thrown on his desk, startling him.
    “You'll find them all in there”
    The red woman got up and walked towards the door, her stocky man behind her. Ron sat, staring emptily off into the distance. The door closed halfway before her voice chimed in.

    “If you do this well, we'll be seeing each other again”
    The door closed. Silence returned to the chamber. Quietly contemplating his next move, Ron sat. The first thought echoing in his mind: “Hopefully not”

    Six o' clock in Chinatown, just as the note inside the folder had said. He was to take a white, blond haired, 5 foot 3 inch man to a bridge about an hour away. That was his goal, and as soon as it was completed he would be done with this whole rotten life in Rust City.
    “There” Ron said under his breath, bringing the car over to where he saw the man. Rolling down the windows he said “Are you the Scorpion?”
    “Aye” came the voice back “and I take it yer me ride.”
    “Yeah”
    The man took the backseat, this unnerved Ron but he didn't make any comment about it. The car lurched forward, and it began its ride to the drop-off point. About five minutes into the car ride, a voice came from the back.

    “So, I suppose introductions are in order. Me name is Alan.”
    “Hello Alan.” he said, trying to be as polite as possible. “I'm Ronald.”
    “Nice to meet ya, Ron.”
    The car swerved onto the highway and the speed picked up.
    “So, how long have ya been in da business?”
    “Pardon?”
    “Oh, you know. Don't be pretendin' you don't know what I'm talkin' about”
    “I can't say I do”
    There was a slight pause as the man in the back thought of his next words.
    “I mean, offin' people for cash.”
    “I'm just a PI that's been hired for an odd job.”
    “Oh don't kid yerself, I know all about you. Me caretakers gave me yer file. You've been a busy boy, working for the Montrelli family”
    “I wouldn't talk about this if I were you.”
    “Oh, don' worry, I don' care. I merely talkin' as one professional to another.”

    There was a heavy silence as Ronald wondered how the hell his clients had a file on him. Then there was some shuffling in the back as Alan rummaged through the contents of the back-seat.

    “Oy, are deeze comic books?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Arn't you a little bit old for that?”

    Ron sat in silent fury, he turned around to snatch the comic book back when he saw some lights coming up behind him.. The implications of this where either innocuous or entirely bad. He pulled his gun out of its holster and switched the safety off. Taking chances was not something he was going to do now, not when he was so close to freedom. The lights were brightening, he could see the cars now and they were getting closer. Too close.

    “Looks like we have company.”
    The first gunshots took out the back window.
    “s**t!”

    Ron's car swerved to the left, trying to shake the followers. Gunshots pinged off the side of his car, sending the passenger into a craze. Without so much as a moment to think, Ron pointed his gun back through the broken window and returned fire. Alan, seeing his opportunity, also pulled a pistol off his hip and began joining in the hail of fire going between the three cars. One of the two cars following Ron pulled up behind him and started ramming him while firing into the cabin. Bullet holes erupted on the seating behind Ron like angry sores, luckily missing him. Alan returned fire. Hitting the driver square in the forehead, sending the car careening wildly off the highway onto the ground below.

    “One down!” Alan gleefully cackled.
    The other car kept its distance, firing blindly towards Ron and Alan. Alan kept to the backseat, firing wildly back in between volleys from the other car. A stray shot grazed Ron on the shoulder.
    “This isn't going to work! We have to get closer!” He screamed.
    “Then slow down, ya git!” Came the retort back.

    Ron slammed on the breaks, sending the half-destroyed car into a halt. Alan took the opportunity and started firing towards the pursuing car. Four shots, and it still approached at full speed. Six shots, and it was still coming. Ten shots, and it was within seconds of colliding, killing everyone involved. The eleventh shot made its mark and the car swerved wildly off-course, avoiding Ron by a large margin and landing in a ditch. The bloody work was done.

    The rest of the ride was in complete silence. As they pulled up to the bridge, Alan was the first to say something.
    “Ye ain't gonna ask about that?”
    “None of my business.”
    Alan leaned back, obscuring himself with shadows.
    “Ye know what I hate about this job?” Ron sat in silence, knowing what happened next, but not wanting to. “I hate it when I have to off some nice blighter like you”
    A gunshot went off through the seat, piercing Ron's belly.
    “It's jus' in our nature, right? It's in our nature.”
    Things were going dark, but he managed to press down on the gas, full force in one last dying motion.
    “Yeah, in our nature.” Ron said as the car plunged off the bridge, into the icy waters below.