There is a flare of furious emotions in his bones and cold hatred flowing through his veins as he walks heavily through the hallway, lit with dim chandeliers. The effect of marijuana emanates through his body and he feels oddly calm for what he is about to do. He chucks the joint aside that he had been smoking for some last eight minutes and immediately lights a Cuban cigar drawing it out of his breast pocket. As he takes a long drag, he flexes his arms to reveal a large ambigram of life and death tattooed on his muscles. The unkempt beard, his sweaty brow, ragged clothes and a small scar over his right eye add to his haggard appearance. The weary, troubled and cold look in his eyes express the suffering they have witnessed and the torture he went through. In his right hand, he carries a pistol which he stole along with the box of cigars from an anorexic stranger he bumped in the dark alley about an hour ago from then. High on marijuana now, he can see the hallway swaying in and out of focus and the dim yellow halogen lights dance around dizzily. Even with all the anger surging inside him and the cannabis doing their bit, his mind is transfixed upon his target sitting in the room at the end of the corridor: Marlon Gonzales, the man who was directly and indirectly responsible for all the black marks, criminal records, wrongdoings, agony and loss in the present day situation of the man's life. There was nothing more that the man wanted, than unloading the gun into Gonzales's fucking head.
Finally reaching at the end of the hallway, he reaches out for the knob to open the door which is the only thing now between him and his revenge. The knob feels cold as he wraps his hand around it and as the door creaks open; a room with a table and chair appears in front of him, with Gonzales’s back facing him. The man points the gun at the back of his head, as it cocks off the safety lever with a meticulous click and his finger moves steadily on the metallic trigger. Gonzales turns back slowly because of the stench of smoke and the click of lever, to face his assassin. He takes a look at the man’s premeditated face and nods with a lopsided smile, accepting his fate. The man stares back at the smiling face of Marlon Gonzales for a lingering moment, as if savouring it; and then, with a swift action he pulls back the trigger of his gun. The room that was swallowed into dead silence, echoes shrilly with the sound of the ricocheting bullet, as it fires out from the man’s pistol and leaves a conspicuous mark on Gonzales’s forehead. He can see the blood oozing out menacingly from the back of his head and splattering out on the glass windows of the room making it look like a painting of modern art. He can see shreds of the dead man’s skull covered in blood flying all around the place. Gonzales’s head comes crashing down with a bang on the table and his eyes stare away blankly into darkness. The man flings away his gun carelessly, sets the cigar upon the table and bends down to take one last look at the man who plagued his entire life. As the blood furiously gushes out from his forehead, he lies there spread-eagled and lifeless on the wooden table. Marlon Gonzales is dead and the evil has finally been vanquished forever, into the realms of hell.
As the man steps out of the room, the blood starts draining down languidly from the windows and the fragments of skull slowly fade out of existence. Hearing the sound of the gunshot, the guards immediately rush frantically trying to locate the source of sound. Quickly crossing the hallway, they enter the room and see the abandoned table and chair. The smoke of the nearly extinguished cigar has now filled up the room, and the guards take a quick look around for the shooter. They cannot see anyone or anything except for a rat eating itself lying in a desolated corner by the dumped weapon, a small bullet sized crater in the middle of the table, and the cigar burning itself away on the table.
The man breathes in fresh air and with a deep sigh of relief, he starts walking towards a small store at the end of the street. He enters inside and asks crisply for a pint of beer and a pack of cigarettes. As he reaches out for his wallet to pay the bill, his driving license slips out indistinctly and lands on the floor with a soft thud. As he bends down to pick it up, his eyes widen in disbelief and he is taken aback with an amalgamation of bewilderment, shock and satisfaction as the face of Marlon Gonzales looks back smugly from the photo imprinted upon the license. Finally, Marlon Gonzales smiles knowingly for what he just did.
Back at the hallway, the guards stare in confusion and astonishment at the spot where the rat ate itself away, and the now extinguished Cigar on the Table..