Vice

      It was odd, the man walked in like he owned the placed. It is a saying that is often overused, but in this drifter’s case it rung true. Each booted foot seemed to slam into the wood floor solidly at every step. As if he were claiming the tavern as his fiefdom with his tread. The man wasn’t that big, he would have met the eye of anyone present, though, he was more stout of stature then most. His clothes were neither fine nor new, but rather well-worn and patched. The broad spun cloth added texture that could almost be felt with the eyes. They were dyed dark forlorn colors more befitting a wake then a tavern. The garb appeared bespoke. The cut and drape, despite the destitute fabric, fit him tightly and still allowed free movement.

      His wasn’t handsome or ugly, just ordinary. Yet, he commanded attention. While everyone would look up from their respective vices to judge any new customer’s worthiness to drink in their presence, it was a more gradual thing, fluid almost. A slow ripple of attention amongst the lot of them on any new patron who entered the wayward establishment. It had started like that; a few men looked up to peer at the man who dared to pierce their sanctum. Since the stranger had moved into the bar without hesitation, not even a slight pause that allowed for the unspoken permission of the crowded room, that slow tide of study turned into a crashing wave of heads snapping up to stare.

      The man’s gaze slashed across the shadowed room as he walked. It challenged the men occupying the tavern, most of those heads which popped up, quickly jerked back down.       Those who dared to return the new comer’s stare hastily looked away, uncertain as to why they felt the need to break the contact, but break it they did. Darkness clung to this man, light was lacking in his eyes. The flicker of the nearby lanterns didn’t help.

      The man continued his peculiar stamping stride to the bar, a queer smugness upon his face. He had just marked this place as his.

      The bartender thus far had ignored the drifter, as was his custom with any new patron. With a practice façade of boredom the bartender look up to belatedly greet his newest customer.

      The man just stared at the bartender and said nothing. The din of the room staggered to a null with the stranger’s silence. The drifter gave no indication or even a willingness to acknowledge the hush that descended at his undeclared request. He smiled, the bartender looked unnerved.

      With a slow grace the man lean forward and place his left elbow on the bar top, once settled he made a come here gesture with his left index finger. The bartender reluctantly approached and mirrored the stranger’s stance on the bar trying to regain what was formerly his. He waited for an order, but none came.

      Instead the drifter nodded, mostly to himself.

      With a suddenness the startled the attentive crowd, the stranger grabbed the bartender by the back of the head with his left hand and opened the man’s throat with a knife in his right. Blood sprayed the drifter and the bar, he didn’t seem concerned, but rather he focused on the maintaining eye contact with the dying man. Life gushed and spurted through the widening rent bleeding the light from the bartender’s eyes.

      As death took his victim the man nodded slowly, accepting the life taken. Once the stream of blood trickled to a sluggish dribble the killer released the corpse and let it fall to the floor.

      And just as he came, the stranger left. No one stopped him.