Lunar Spray

It is a Wednesday in January, 1997. 

The night is quiet and cold. A lone figure creeps down the sidewalk, wrapped in a cashmere long coat; a scarf is tightly wrapped around his head. His dark, steely eyes are illuminated by the combination of a full moon and heavy snow, intermittently augmented by sentinel street lights as he passes under them. There is a phone booth just ahead, and it begins to ring as he steps within its vicinity.

He picks up the receiver. “Yeah?”

“Armada Arms building. Room 413,” says a man’s voice on the phone, “One man: 6’3”, black hair, olive complexion. Name: uh, Erazmo Prattlesford III.  Also in attendance: two whores, both female. Leave no witness. One known handgun on his person and the blonde whore is carrying mace.” 

“Okay. Any back story?”

“You could say that…”

“Lay it on me.”

“The back story is… sometimes the meek inherit the Earth, and sometimes the meek inherit the Earth, i.e. the soil.”

“Riddles are for faggots!”

“Hey, hey… take it easy! All you need to know is he’s got a hefty price on his head! You do the job right, you’ll be rewarded very nicely.”

Click. The phone went dead. 

[monologue]