Mardas frowned at the crumpled paper that lay between his wrinkled fingers. This Arthur person seemed harder to find than anyone else. He licked his cracked lips as he glared out of the dull window. The glass was so old and so dirty that he could barely see the starlit sky. He got up, tiredly limping across the room to his closet. He opened it up softly. The dusty doors creaked, as if moaning in agony. He reached for the French hat he kept on the top shelf. He had kept it for 40 years.
Mardas was a strange man. He had always had a somewhat aggressive style within him, but despite his stubborn spirit he remained a polite and half-kind old man. To tell the truth of starting his career, he had always felt incomplete. He had very rebellious thoughts against the world, which he rather kept to himself. He had been extremely thoughtful and scrutinizing of every situation he was put through, yet had become more and more of a careless person over the years, by age. And now, as he glared into his dusty reflection, into his empty eyes, into his mind, he saw his years coming back, and he wondered. Wondered what was to become of him, of his career, of his life and his society.
And what was to become of Arthur.
     “Oh well,” He thought, turning away towards the kitchen. “Must be getting old.” He wandered lazily with a sigh to the door, and sloppily slammed it shut behind him.

    Mardas (which wasn’t his real name) was a veteran from the Vietnam War. That experience changed his life drastically. Instead of falling into the post-Vietnam disease most soldiers got from having shot children and killed innocent women, he became crazy in a different way. He gained hatred towards the country that had started this war. He wanted to avenge the country for tearing apart his life. He no longer cared about anything, since he felt nothing could ruin his already wrecked soul any more. That’s why he attempted murdering Richard Nixon.

    Ever since that event (which was hushed up by the federal government), he took up a job as a bounty hunter. His name was no longer Gerald Marens, and people who were willing to pay for someone’s death knew to contact Mardas Jutsvic. He lived in New York City, and was 65 years old at 1989. By then, he was rich from several successful tasks completed. He could easily handle anything that was thrown at him without getting into any trouble. Until he met Leonardo.

    Leonardo Ornelas had entered Mardas’ office with his face almost completely covered up by a pair of sunglasses and a scarf. He dropped a note on his desk, and left as promptly as he had arrived. Mardas tiredly grasped the note in his hand. His restless eyes browsed the lines, scanning the words with impatience. There was the information about Leonardo and details about his target. The name was written at the end.

    Arthur Necro, the name that would be Mardas’ doom. Oblivious of his future, Mardas reached his hand out to a shelf. He grappled the spine of a Latin dictionary. He slid the book into his loose fingers and dragged it onto his desk. As he absently flipped the pages, he cut the tip of his finger on the edge of the page. With a grunt, he lightly held his finger, as a drop of scarlet blood smoothly plunged onto the paper, sliding down the word. Necro: the Latin word for death. Just like Mardas had suspected. He softly shut the book, thinking.

    Friday. Today was going to be Mardas’ first attempt at killing Arthur. He headed towards a deserted alleyway by 23rd street. As he turned into the Shadow-thick, stained road, he coughed at the sweet-bitter smell of Marijuana.
    New York City was a very bad place to be in 1989. Where Mardas was headed was the very place you would go for drugs or prostitutes. But a lot of them backed off when they saw Mardas. They knew his style, and how he felt about them. He once broke a drug dealer’s nose for approaching him with a bag of cocaine. This time they all pushed themselves to the wall, heads down, as if there was a red carpet in front of Mardas.
    Narrowing his eyes and violently grunting at a magazine left in the street, Mardas walked along the invisible carpet towards the entrance of a nightclub. He bolted the door open, and proceeded up a long staircase. The lights cast a grey shine on the decaying walls. There was noise coming from above. When Mardas reached the top, a foul smell entered his nose and old music echoed in his eardrums.

    After breaking a few fingers, Mardas left the club at eleven with a rifle under his coat. It was long ago he actually paid for his arms. He pulled out a note from his pocket.

     12:30. West 52nd street. Dakon Building. 5th floor.
 
Mardas smiled. I’m coming for you, Arthur. You can’t hide.

   
    Dakon Building was a majestic and tall skyscraper. Mardas was located on the rooftop of a building have the size of Dakon’s large 15 stories. He was almost two floors above Arthur. He was standing right by the window, his back turned towards Mardas. All that was visible was his long, blond hair and his long, white coat. He was having a conversation with two other men.

    At this point in his life, Mardas was so used to the same deal; he didn’t even feel the slightest bit nervous. But he still had to focus. He held the gun at the same position for over two minutes to attain accuracy and balance. Here we go. His fingers tightened on the trigger. But just that instant, a crow swooped onto the barrel, piercing through the ghostly silence with its infernal cry. It stared at Mardas with deep, black eyes as he watched in terror the glass being shattered by the bullet, and then it landing on the floor.

    He missed it. He shot the floor. Before he was even entirely sure on what had just happened, he dashed to the stairwell and stumbled all the way down. His blood was pumping so fast his veins almost burst. His heart was running twice as fast as his feet soaring down the avenue. The way to his apartment seemed to be miles long. The rows of houses glared down at the hyperventilating Mardas. When he reached his door, he slammed it shut. He fell on the floor, trying to catch his breath. What time was it? It was impossible to tell. It always felt as the same time here. The narrow window facing north was to blame. He eyed the office. There were new letters left on the table.
    As he crawled through the timeless room, he tried retracing what had happened. It was all too fast. Would he try again? Would Arthur maybe find Mardas?
    The letter was from Leonardo. Mardas ripped it open with exhausted fingers.


Hello Mardas,
    I was recently sitting in my office just about yesterday, when a sharp rock smashed my window and injured my shoulder. If it had hit my head I could have died. I think Arthur did it. Haven’t you killed him yet? Alive, he poses a threat to me. I think he has somehow discovered that I’ve ordered his death. Perhaps you’ve already made an attempt to kill him, but failed? In that case, both of us are in danger. I tell you, for the sake of our safety (and your payment as well), kill him promptly and quietly. I do believe being discrete will prevent events like this from being repeated.
Best,
Leonardo Ornelas

Arthur Necro, Mardas thought. What an appropriate name.