The call came in bright and early. Sharky jotted down some details then grabbed his coat and made haste. It was only after he arrived at the abandoned and neglected apartment building that he began having second thoughts.

Not just his livelihood, but also his life was on the line here. His reputation. If anyone knew what he was doing all of what he had worked so damn hard for would be out the fuckn window.

Thoughts swirled through his ambitious mind and his heart began racing as he climbed the stairs. Two floors. Three floors. Four floors. Number 87. The chalked up number had him thinking he might just become a stiff, a stencil for more chalk. What a shithole.

Sharky nervously looked around the hallway then used the back of his hand to knock.

#TAP#TAP#TAP#

Papa Nurgle downed his 3rd beer for the night. He could've chosen rum, but he preferred the soothing, almost-euphoric effect of the beer. His apartment, dimly lit and almost filthy, is the doorway to his heart and soul. He can easily afford big hotel rooms all over the city, or even at least one estate. But he just can't feel the essence of bourgeois lifestyle...not, if everything is bound to succumb to death and decay.

Well, he may enjoy rich pleasures here and there...after all, what's the point of being a hustler?

Tap, tap, tap. Slow, uncertain knocks brought Nurgle to reality. Oh, could it be Death lurking behind the door? Nurgle took his time. He ate the half-finished pizza slice beside him and donned a brown robe filled with ketchup stains. He pocketed a poison-laced karambit...just in case. As he approached the door, he gazed at the peephole and felt a churn in his stomach.

"Sharky." Nurgle muttered in a guttural, almost non-human tone. He opened the door and smiled. "It's good to see you, friend. I assume you're here to settle our business..."

A shallow yet wide smile forced its way onto Sharky Green's mug. He began unconsciously fidgeting with a button on his white button down shirt. The collar was wide open and sweat marks were growing under his arm pits.

He may have once been a nimble pool shark, gliding around the table with ease, but in his semi-retirement he'd gained some added padding around the gut. And although still catching his breath due to neglected cardio and accepted laziness, his sweating was mostly due to his anxiety.

"Nurgle. Friend, yes. I mean no. I mean yes we are friends, aren't we?" He stammered, still fidgeting as he stood nervously before the man whom he'd been avoiding for a good fortnight.

Upon seeing that Sharky's fidgeting, Nurgle asked him to sit down in a dilapidated couch. A tiny squeal came out of the couch, which almost startled Sharky. Nurgle went to his fridge - a slumbering hulk of a man - and took a can of cold beer. 

He tossed it to Sharky, and the latter caught it smoothly. Nurgle took a beer for himself and sat down.

"How are you doing, Sharky? It seems you were pretty busy...my boys couldn't find you." Nurgle opened his beer; the loud fizz reverberated all over his dank apartment. 

"I'm sure you need to prioritize some things. I understand, really. But then, we gotta talk business. Are you willing to talk business with me, my slick, hustling friend?" Nurgle spoke and smiled once again. His smile resembled fear, chaos, and the deathly silence looming upon the world. 

Nurgle patiently waited for an answer. He loves to expect bad news, but the answer must be pretty indeed. 

Sharky gulped at PapaNurgle's proposed question. Would he be willing to talk business? He hadn't been willing the last four times his phone rang at the pool hall. But it's hard to say no when a stand over guy is looking down his nose at you, in a dimly lit driveway, outside your mothers house. So he was more strongly advised to come to talk shop, than willing.

And due to not wanting to find out what happens when no was a verbal response rather than a strategic avoidance, here he was, at the suggested meeting spot.

"Of course." Sharky replied after opening and taking a sip of the beer. Maybe this will take the edge off, he thought.

"I was just looking after my ma, is all. She's been sick lately. You know how these old birds are, eh? Can't look after themselves half the time. They want you around when you're not, and when you are all they do is complain about the times you're not. It's like shes getting alzheimers or something. Or maybe she's just a cynical old bat."

Sharky was trying. All his years of experience winning fans and admirers over and it was all coming down to this. Common ground might just make this whole thing less painful. At least for him, hopefully.

Sharky was tense. His breathing quickened and became more shallow. He was banking on the hope Nurgle had good ties with his own mother and could relate, even if what he was saying was complete bullshit.

He figured small talk and some light rapport might just help ease the inevitable. Like lube, before being bent over. Because although his intentions were good, he imagined this is how it was probably going to come across. Like he was trying to fuck him out of money.

The moment Sharky mentioned his mother, Nurgle felt a slight 'zap' in his mind. His mother, bless her soul, was stabbed in a dark alleyway for a shot at being good. Nurgle was a kid when his mother died, but he already planned his vengeance. In the end, justice was served and the perpetrator slept with the fishes. 

Then Nurgle came back to reality. To Sharky. To the business at hand. He chugged down his beer and threw the can away, God willing where did it roll. He understood Sharky...but business is business. Truly, hustlers must come to a settlement.

"I hope your mother gets better, Sharky. I really do. Now, I can see that you're having difficulties settling what you owe. I hate people who run away from me. But I believe in reason. After all, we are not animals. We're hustlers." 

Nurgle stood up and took a brown leather notebook from a nearby drawer. He opened it in the middle, smiled a bit, and took a small picture. He handed it to Sharky. Cautiously, the latter received the picture -

- the picture shows a breath-taking portrait of an alluring woman. Wavy, crimson hair. Fair complexion. A look of sadness in her eyes.

"To settle your debt, you have to help me. That fine lass is Eveline Guenison. She's beautiful, right? I loved her once, but things...things are uncontrollable and our connection failed." Nurgle said. "She ran away, undercut my business partners, and now enjoying a grand life."

Sharky nodded. He sipped once more from his beer. 

"I want you to kill her." Nurgle smiled, creepily. "But I have to watch you...I have to see you slicing her throat."

Sharky felt the floor disintegrating beneath him. He stared at the picture. Such a heavenly woman! Only to be killed, murdered in cold blood? Perhaps this woman has dreams, aspirations, or ideas. 

"What say you?" Nurgle closed the notebook.

Outside, a lone gunshot echoed - as if heightening the dread of the night.