Hidden in a dirty alley far from the city center is a dingy, broken down bar called The Dead End. Inside, the paint on the wall is chipped and stained, the floor sticky with spilled alcohol. Almost all of the tables are broken or dysfunctional in some way, and the television is perpetually on the local news. And stuck on mute.
Despite its state, the place is packed. Customers howl, laugh, and drink like it's their last night alive. For some, it will be, because The Dead End is a mercenary bar, where anyone can fork over a few hundred dollars and pay someone to do just about anything.
I would know. I've done just about all of it.
Sitting at the bar of this temple of violence is a large man who has seen better days. He has untamed, grimy hair falling over empty, dull gray eyes set into deep, exhausted sockets. His body is covered in tattoos and scars, including a particularly nasty burn covering his left forearm, warping the flesh and ink there into a melted blur.
"Another round." I say, not looking up from my glass.
I had just finished my most recent commission, a simple smash and grab on something or other, the details mattering less and less as I drain my glass.
I just know I can afford to let go tonight.
The bartender is refilling my glass as someone slides into the seat next to me, smelling of cheap cigarettes and AXE body spray.
"His round's on me, barkeep." The man says, sliding twenty onto the bar. "And give me the same."
I grunt into the glass, not even deigning to give the guy a glance.
That doesn't seem to phase him though, as he starts talking anyways.
"Hey man, I'm looking for Percival Santiago. Fits your description, if you were five years younger and twenty pounds lighter. That you?" the man asks almost casually. I'd believe it was casual, if I couldn't feel his gaze boring holes into my skull.
At that I give the man a side-eyed glance and get a look at him for the first time. He's young, I'd say not even an adult yet, with a clean black tracksuit, a bandana covering his mouth and a baseball cap on his head.
It's his eyes though, filled with pure anger and malice that really draw my attention.
I snort, dismissing the boy as a danger. "Who wants to know?"
"That's always a yes." The brat says as he sips at his drink, wincing at the bitter taste. "No one says 'Who wants to know' if it's not them. They just say no."
"Well yeah, but I need your name. Otherwise, how do I know who's going to pay me?" I say, finishing the drink in front of me. "That's why you're here, isn't it? Need something, or someone handled?"
"Oh? You got me. I'm actually here to put out a hit." The brat says. "My name is Inigo Montoya."
"Alright Inigo." I say, lazily reaching for a tray of nuts on the bar. "Who do you need killed?"
Inigo's eyes glaze over, his gaze far, far in the distance.
Suddenly, he slams the rest of his drink and leans back on his stool.
"The man who killed my father." Inigo says. "I understand that my father wasn't a good man. He had his flaws, you know? But he wasn't a villain. Just a single father doing what he could for his only son. But he had gambling debts he needed to pay, and when he didn't." The kid huffs a breath and flags the barkeep for another drink.
"They killed him. Broke into our apartment and shot him in our living room. Put him down like a dog."
"That's rough." I say, spitting pistachio shells in my empty glass. "But it doesn't really matter. I just need a name and description. If you don't have the info, talk to the barkeep or a fixer. They'll put in a commission."
The young man leans in closer to me and starts whispering. "I know who it is, hell, I even know where he is, I just."
He starts getting quieter, so I have to lean in to hear him better.
"Need him to get a little closer…"
Pain. Blinding, white hot pain.
I lean back, hand clamping my side as heat blossoms under my ribs. The bastard's got a pocketknife, steel slick with viscous, red blood.
My blood.
He slides the blade back into his sleeve like he's tucking away a cigarette and orders me another drink from the bartender. The bar's too loud and too crowded for barkeep to actually notice me bleeding out as he sets the glass in front of me.
The little bastard has the gall to laugh.
"You know, I really thought I gave away the game." He says, wiping my blood off his hand with a bar napkin. "I mean, C'mon. 'My name is Inigo Montoya?' I was dying laughing inside. But you, the pathetic washed up drunk you are, didn't even blink at the reference. Even when I described my father's murder, which you did, you didn't react."
He tosses back the entire drink the barkeep hands him and slams the glass down.
"To be fair," he says, wiping his mouth, "I shouldn't expect scum like you to remember every life you ruin, right?"
He sets the glass down with a casual clink.
"Goodbye, Percival," the man says. "I've got more work to do tonight. You enjoy the rest of yours, yeah?"
And then the man, my murderer, is gone.
A minute later, so am I.
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This time we're doing a Chaos Gacha fic, courtesy of the G.O.A.T Bronz_Deck so make sure to check his stuff out.
After reading my other novels again ofc.
And reviewing this one and adding to the library.
But… yeah. I'm going to predate this by saying Percival Santiago is not and was not a good man. He's made an infinite amount of mistakes in his life and he's not happy with who he is.
Maybe he can fix that in the next world, huh?
See Y'all in Chapter 2.
(P.S. Check out the source...)
https://www.chaosgacha.c0m