HIs walk was slow with a slight shamble his head hung low. His feeling of shame was so present those who walked past him felt it as if it was a living thing. The man was young in his years, which was surprising for a drunk, and his 6th sense was way beyond a normal person. Or they would have been had he not wasted himself away with drink. HIs face was shallow and pale, his eyes sunken in and lifeless, no longer holding the intense fire that once burned when sober. His hair was short and jet and dotted with white streaks. A huge black trench coat hid his alcohol weakened body. A body packed with power and agility weakened by the bottle.
The bottle the only that the man has had. Always present and wrapping it's comforting arms around the hurting soul. The bottle hanging from his weak feeble hand. His only thought was where he was going to get the money for his next bottle. Yet through all this alcohol hasn't had a hold of his life for very long. He hadn’t always been dulled by the whiskey. He has gone through things that would place the average person into a mental house for life. If only the people knew that before they mocked and scoffed. He walked simply because there was nothing else he had or could do. Even though he shambled for hours on end he subconsciously never walked too far from the liquor store.
The streets of Paris were flooded with both water and traffic. It had been raining fro three days straight and the man was soaked to the bone. Stumbling he made for the traffic light, fondling feebly for the crossing button. After what seemed like years the walk sign showed. Pushing himself of the pole he staggered forward. The paint on the side of the curb was wet, and therefore dangerously slippery. His foot slipped out from underneath him sending him face forward into a giant puddle in the street. He laid for a couple seconds dazed from hitting his head on the street. He put his freezing hands underneath him some strength of his youth emerged through the curtain of alcohol. He regained his feet with a single push. He continued to plod on as if nothing had ever happened. Snickers and giggles from some passing civilians entered his sensitive ears. Yet before he could react the whiskey fogged his brain.
Little did any of the mockers know that they should have gone home, got on their knees and thanked god that this man was drunk. If it was not for the whiskey fogging all his thoughts and actions they to would have been lying face down in the flooded street. Except they would have had bullet holes in the back of their heads.

The bright morning sun blinded the drunk, worsening the head splitting headache he had. An empty bottle rested in his hand, and he was comfortably lying in a pile of trash. He staggered to feet, staggering a bit. His headache making him wince, hangovers were the worst. He surged forward to a light post, stabilizing himself before he face planted. He rested on the pole his head spinning and breathing hard. His vision was blurry and fuzzy, everything seemed to be spinning. He rested for a couple minutes, eyes closed letting the nausea pass. HIs pocket vibrated and the sound of his phone followed. Digging into his pocket he pulled out his phone and answered the call.
“Elijah?” the voice was that of a males. Deep and full of authority
“This is him.” Elijah's response was muffled and slurred. His brain still spinning slightly making it hard to focus.
“Meet me at the small coffee shop on main street. Be ready, I got a job for you.” With that the phone call was ended. To avoid being tracked.
Elijah cursed under his breath, he was in no shape to be pulling and jobs right now.He was so unfocused there is no way that he could do this. But the decision was not for him to make. He whistled for a taxi and waited. One slid up dropping of to passengers, he climbed in and gave the cab driver instructions for the coffee shop. THe drive was short, Elijah was just minutes from the Shop. He had the taxi drop him off a few blocks down the street from the shop. After paying the driver he stepped out of the cab. His headache still screamed, but his vision and thoughts were fairly normal. He walked down the sidewalk keeping a constant surveillance of the whole street. He stepped into a side alley and behind a dumpster. Reaching into his trench coat he pulled out his Glock 9mm, it's cold steel grip comforting his hand. In the other pocket he withdrew a silencer, and with three fast turns he screwed it on and replaced it in his holster. He was ready, he walked up to the shop and walked through the door and back to work. The coffee shop was empty, there was about two people in his part of the store. There was a section up stairs where the officials went to have meetings. There were about three tables in the main area and a large bar against the counter. His phone buzzed and his phone lit up. Elijah waited until he was sitting down at a table until he looked at it. A picture showed of a middle aged looking man with blonde hair and goatee. The name below spelled out Mark Scott. A man known for his large portion of the gun sales to the taliban.
Elijah closed the phone and replaced it in his pocket and stood. He walked swiftly and smoothly to the stair case. At the top of the stairs there was a bodyguard. Who stood arms crossed sunglasses covering his eyes. Elijah lowered his head and walked slowly up the stairs.
“Just turn around and head back down the stairs you are not permitted past here.” The guard waved and Elijah with a dismissive gesture. Elijah was arms length away when he stopped. His head hung low, his arm flashed. Elijah's hand smashing brutally into the guard's throat. Knowing his own strength Elijah knew there was no surviving that. THe guard choked and grabbed his throat falling slowly to his knees, he started to cough blood. Without a ssecond glance he pushed the door open.
In the room there was three finely dressed men, all of them wearing hundreds of dollar suits. They all looked up in complete shock, and annoyance at being disturbed. That was the last face they all made. Elijah raised his 9mm and snapped three quick shots, every bullet burying itself deep in each of their forehead right between there eyes.  Elijah picked up his shells, turned adn walked down the stairs and out to the street. once he was three blocks down the street did he unlock his phone and sent a two word text.
“It’s Finished”