• The Magicman's Last Act


    The city slept. Streetlamps shone thin shadows bathed in pale yellow fluorescent light on cold, black tar. Debris, among other things, littered the streets. This street, in particular, was Mendon Road. Home to the infamous Saliri family crime syndicate.

    * * * * * * * * *


    The sound of hasty footsteps echoed through the night air, coupled with the sound of muffled voices. A man wearing a hunter green sweat jacket and dark blue jeans started down the left side of the street, clutched in his left hand is the handle to a dark brown leather briefcase. He is followed by two men, one wearing a sharp blue business suit, the other wearing a matching red one. All three, however, have one thing in common. They are wearing black, wool ski masks, concealing their identities. Heading down the street, the man in green stopped, holding out his free hand to signal the other two to stop as well. Cautiously, the man in green looks left then right. Reaching up, he peels the ski mask off his face. The red and blue clothed men do the same. Stepping off the curb, the three men walk across the street, where very little light shone from the lamppost opposite. The man in the green jacket's face was tan, his eyes were an emerald green, his hair short and a murky dark brown, nearly plastered to his head from sweat. His expression light, almost airy.

    "Boss," spoke the man in the blue suit, his voice gruff, masculine.

    "Yes Dorland?" Returned the casual sounding voice of the man in the hunter green jacket.

    "You-you never did tell us who we did the job for. I was just wondering, that's all."

    "I'm aware of that. The higher-ups in the Saliri family thought it best to leave that information to the man getting paid tonight."

    "What?" Asked, almost shouting, the man in the red suit, whose name was Seth.

    "You heard me. I made it perfectly clear what the family has planned for you. You've lived out your usefulness."

    "Oh yeah," said Seth, "Who says we're going to let you?"

    "Oh," spoke the man in green, "I'm fully aware of the inevitability of you fighting back. In fact, I'm hoping for it." He dropped the briefcase and slipped his hand into the pocket of his jacket. "Give me a challenge, God knows I need it." Sliding his hand out of the pocket, he pulls out a simple-looking carving knife.

    Seth stepped forward, arms outstretched, hoping to somehow get a hold on the green jacketed man. However, the man in green was one step ahead, jabbing the blade of the knife into the middle of Seth's chest, eliciting a soft, sickening wet sound as the blade entered and exited in a mere matter of seconds. Kicking Seth to the ground, his attention now turned to Dorland, the man who spoke first.

    Dorland rushed at him, nearly tripping over Seth's unmoving body, and was caught by the arm up until the elbow. He found himself falling onto the rough concrete. Dizzy, Dorland felt the sharp surface of a cold, metal blade cut the skin on his neck, the trickle of crimson fluid dripping onto the asphalt before him, and all else escaped him. All was quiet.

    The man in the green jacket stood up, a feeling of euphoria washed over him, a giddy laugh escaped his lips. Bending down slowly, his fingers found the rough leather handle of the briefcase. Sighing, he dropped a plain card with a Phoenician "m" written in blood, walking away into the night.