An experiment in first person.
|I don't want to be here. A city built on romance is no place for a man built on violence. Romance and love get traded for assault rifles and C-4 when you're a hired gun. The smell of fresh coffee fills the quaint shop. Lush green plants and a zen waterfall give it a peaceful feel.
I can feel the barista's eyes on me. It's not a comfortable stare, either. Mercenaries endeavor to be a puff of smoke. They appear, make their presence known, and then vanish. Here's a question, why are clients late? I bet someone with a bunch of degrees and too much time on their hands could explain it.
The door dings a southern gentleman in his fifties enters with a white stetson in his hand. Is he wearing a cattle skull bolo tie? A quick check of the contact email says this could be the client.
"Beauford Heartley?" A little embarrassme