Quent sat at the bar on a wooden stool and ordered his pint of beer. The place was just as bad as it looked on the outside, cramped, dusty and with the heads of moldy, dead animals hanging from all sorts of places. Luckily, it was still quite early to drink, and there were only a few people, each dressed like Quent himself, with whatever they could afford. Perfect, this only kept getting better. None of these folk would care if John - who looked very out of place with his suit - suddenly disappeared, and none would even suspect him, Quent. He looked too, well, normal.
He waited and waited for the official to make him move, to go to the men’s room. After a few drinks, a very full, but totally sober John Ferrier got up and walked definitely towards the room, followed quickly by a ghost of a cab driver. Once inside, he waited for the official to do his business before turning and bolting the door closed with a bar he’d stashed in his trousers since this morning.
“What are you doing, man? Let me through.”
“No.” His own voice surprised him, how chillingly calm and determined it was. He knew this one here was smart, and wasted no time. In a single smooth motion that seemed quite astounding for a man pushing fifty years of age, he banished a knife. The seven inch blade gleamed dully in the lightly, casting strange shadows over Quent’s face. He changed his stance, a more confident one now that he held the weapon in hand.
“John Alexander Ferrier, do you know who I am?” He sneered at the start using the man’s full name caused, when he’d never even been given his first.
“No, I don’t. What are you doing? Are you mad?” The official, too, was calm, as if this sort of thing was the norm. Quent supposed it might of been, the government just about murdered itself every morning anyway, with all the unrest these past weeks. He watched as John backed away from the blade, closer to the corner of the room. The grin spread wider.
“You should, ’cause I know you an awful lot…” A snicker as his prey opened his mouth as if to demand a better explanation, but the moment his eyes fell on the weapon, he stopped completely, shut his mouth and waited.
“Wha-what? Why are you doing this? I have never wronged you…”
“Margaret is my wife.” Chilling and definitive, how could someone doubt such a convicted tone? Yet, this stupid man did and shook his head. Idiot. It made Quent smile, made him chuckle like some mad person, the horrible sound echoing.