A Tale.

by

The man stepped out of the dingy pub, drunk from downing one too many tequilas. He was 6′ tall, with a lean stature, and clothed in complete blackness. His eyes, blocked from the public’s view by sunglasses, were a kaleidoscope of different colors.

The pub was located in Dubois, a small town in rural Montana. In the dark backdrop behind the town’s limits, mountains stood in sharp contrast to the moonlit night sky.

The man, Jalat, was not human; he belonged to a slightly different species than humans–the Mercenaries. For centuries, a splinter group of humans carefully bred a select amount of people to eventually create an species dedicated to ridding the Earth of the bad, evil, and ugly. Jalat was the last of his kind; the others had either been killed or thrown into maximum security prisons scattered throughout the world. According to the U.N., the EU, and the U.S., the Merceneries were nothing more than a terrorist group. Needless to say, Jalat was a wanted man.

Jalat’s physical abilties were above-average when compared with a human. He could run fast, up to 40 MPH. He had the strength of a grizzly bear, and was trained in advanced modern warfare techniques. Where he really excelled, however, was in the mind. He could easily be described as a genius.

Jalat walked down the desolate main street, breathing in the crisp, cold Montana night air. After five minutes of this pleasant stroll, Jalat arrived at his rented house on the town’s outskirts. He opened up the garage, flicked on the light, and sat down on his BMW motorcycle cruiser. Turning the keys in the ignition, the cruiser’s engine sprung to life. Jalat revved the engine, then sped out into the night and towards his destination.

Bill was a businessman who made a buck at any cost. Indirectly, many deaths could be traced to Bill’s ruthless business methods. His trades included but were not limited to: illegal drugs, prostitution, human trafficking, and even legitimate pharmaceuticals. His influence reached far into the bureaucratic tentacles of many different nation states’ governments. Bill was an untouchable. He was currently overseeing his newly minted Pharmaceutical factory, situated an hour north of Dubois. This was one of Bill’s “legal” activities. Security at the facility was at a maximum. Former special forces, armed with M-16 assault rifles, stood at all seven entrances to the box shaped factory. At each corner, sitting at the top of a tower ,lookout men with binoculars and sniper rifles scrutinized the surrounding flat countryside for any potential threats. Bill took no chances in with his safety; he knew there were people out there who would rejoice to see him bloody, mutilated, and dead.

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