One

 

It was all cracking, sparking and his head felt like a fireball, flames shooting out of the top of it, his hair on fire. That of course was if he didn't shave his head. Fashion could be a skull fuck for a guy like him. It was Paris, the train station, Gare du Nord connecting the Euro Star from Paris with London's Kings Cross, just there, down the boulevard. It was winter and a light snow was falling, melting on the felt of his black fedora. He so loved Paris in the winter. As always, he felt it was stunning.

He was strolling, no, hunting in Paris again as he moved casually down the Avenue Gare du Nord located in Montmartre. He smiled as he watched as the snowflakes fluttered around the spires of the Basilique du Sacre' Coeur and though he was not French, he knew no other city that compared to this City of Lights. The cafes were bustling, the bars and bistros humming, sophisticated Parisians sipping at café avec du laits, espressos, croissants'. Such style, the women, so much care taken with fashion, yet, he was not seeking a French woman for the evening. He was seeking something entirely different.

 

Two

 

He was an unusual man; he understood that. Yet, through the morning as he sought again, he wanted to feel it, the snake iron of his handgun, layered along his side, under the coat of his black Baroni suit that rested in its shoulder holster.

He wore leather gloves for he always used leather when he worked. No scars, no hurt except the pain he often brought on like a train wreck, traction you see. He was an artist and it was what he did, long time running, for no one was better at what they did then him. The violence, the gutted bull intensity in his head, his imagination and of course the pure sadism, it rocked, man did it ever. There we're few, if any men quite like him.

It was 8 AM, she's was a blond, the bitches we're always blondie, the wild blue eyes, had to be blue. He looked into their souls as he did his Styx, blood, the purple welt's, they silhouetted nice, right against their pale skin. An entrepreneur of unbelievable pain he was hyper particular who he opted to party with. He loved that word. What a fucked up world, but this time, like every time, my goodness, it was going be beautiful.

It was Sunday, a quiet day in Montmartre, and as he had approached the train station he saw that it was less congested as usual and of course he had planned it that way. Less eye sockets, less people, well that simply allowed him to do his thing, a most amazing thing. He was carrying a two meter long rather large black duffel bag on wheels, and inside were a set of golf clubs. He did not play golf, but that didn't matter for the moment, for the clubs were expendable, simply throwaway props needed for his work of the morning.

He walked into the station and he did not need directions for he had been there yesterday. He had a photographic memory and already knew where to go, and what to do. The station was dramatic, a massive train depot, sky high skylights that soared up and into the atrium. There we're Crayola colored umbrellas, kiosks, food stalls, shops and cafes all with sparse crowds mingling with in them.

Strolling casually, he was moving to the Euro Star and The Thalys and Arpiuing trains that were coming in from Lundres, Bruxelles and many German Cities as well as other destinations scattered across Europe that would be arriving soon. It was cold and he was glad that he was wearing his fedora, a black cashmere scarf, black Burberry Trench coat; the English made such marvelous togs, none better in the world. On his feet there we're a pair of extraordinary Crockett & Jones black leather brogues. They were, quite simply said, the finest shoes in the world. Looking like a well to do gentlemen, that was of course important for the work of his morning.

He was thirty eight years old, blue eyes, rather large nose, a square jaw, a handsome man, a tall man, a most twisted and unique man.

He would not have to clear customs for his work and even if he had to it would have represented no problem for he held many passports, plus accompanying ID's from several different countries. He could easily be French, German, Italian, Russian and of course an American, all of which he had mastered their languages. For the morning, he was a German. With an IQ well over one hundred and sixty he could be so many different things, for he was a so much like the chameleon, interchangeable personalities, personas, character traits, for above all he was a master of disguise, which he had not needed for his present morning work.

Glancing at his Patek Philippe solid, gold watch, it told him he was right on schedule. He never thought it would be otherwise. Moving through the sparse crowds, he stalled in front of a green Billetterie Ile-de-France ticket vending machine. Though he had no plans to depart Paris, he took his Smart Pin Chip credit card, inserted it and purchased his ticket to London's Kings Cross. Soon one of the trains, Ter and Transilien trains would be arriving from foreign locals, and of course he knew which one he sought.

He easily moved past the security guards and police and there was of course no problem with that. He looked quite stylish, expensive clothes, watch, a heavy gold bracelet and a gold ring with a four carat white diamond centered in it. He never wore jewelry and actually he detested it, so gaudy and so pretentious. They we're just props for his business of the morning.

Finding his platform, he sat casually and lighted a Benson and Hedges with his gold Cartier lighter and enjoyed the inhalation of smoke from the finest cigarette in the world. He was not born English, but he so dug almost everything about the country.

He was a powerful man, worked out with dead weights constantly, yet he adored fine wine and of course no one more than he knew that life without a cigarette would be so lacking.

After some time, and right on schedule a train pulled up to the platform. He loved trains and this one was from Nice, which also was one of his most favorite cities. It was an elegant paradise stitched along the indigo seas of the Cote de azure and he owned a chalet there.

He extinguished his smoke, lifted his black duffel bag, and as passengers departed he simply lingered as he watched each passenger, of course only female passengers as they departed. There would be a thirty minute delay before the train departed for London, and that was of course perfect, just as he had planned. He had not located her, yet.

She was either there, or she was not, no matter to him. He was very fussy about his work and would never have settled for whatever he wasn't seeking. Was he delusional, perhaps, but he had certain concrete pictures in his mind of what he sought and all of it was trolling through his twisted mind. Though he was paid quite well for his work, he knew that a missed train, a cryptic e-mail lost in cyber space, a change of plans, well they we're a part of his life.