The bag hits the floor with a surprising thud. A second look at it made it clear that it wasn't an ordinary bag.

The figure beside it stood tall and proud. An old man with a well-tailored suit sticking to his body. He was in surprisingly good shape. His age was only apparent through his snow-white hair and wrinkly features. When he spoke he let his words drag, savouring them.

"I'm terribly sorry to be the bearer of bad news." he started cracking his knuckles, adjusting his suit. "I have been trusted to deliver you a wicked message that will greatly change your future."

Two young men laughed loudly. Their laughter filled the room, echoing the seriously stiff man in the centre of the room. The laughter continued as the old man reached for his pocket, halting only when a swift movement set a scalpel airborne and buried it in the throat of the young mobster standing.

As the youngster laughed, blood squirted out of his throat and quickly covered the surviving man and his desk. His laughter mangled into a guttural yelling as the droplets of blood painted a sloppy mosaic on the papers that laid on the table. The thick crimson liquid quickly smeared all around the desk as the deceased tell on top of the desk.

Trying to get up, the yelling mobster was met with the butt of a small hatchet. His senses gave out and he just faded peacefully. No more horror, no more death. Everything was fine, once again. Perhaps it had all been a dream. The sweet embrace of darkness convinced him everything was fine, that it had been just a nightmare.

His eyelids twitched, struggling to open. The warm caress of smooth sheets made him want to linger in bed for a moment more. Turning around to face his wife, he opened his eyes. Seeing her beautiful face was his favourite part of the day, every day. Her beautiful brown hair, her glistering hazel eyes. They had a streak of green he loved more than anything in the world.

It was still too dark to see her. He figured he should sleep a little more, but first, he'd get up for some water. As he tried standing, he realized the sheets were keeping him from moving. Struggling to free himself, he fought the sheets only to realize he was under the effect of some sort of sedative.

The lights flickered on.

His eyes closed for a second. He tried speaking but his words came out as an indistinct blur. The feeling of panic rushed down his spine as he saw the same old man from earlier. His white shirt was surprisingly spotless, as were his hair and moustache. Struggling to understand him, the man tried begging for mercy as he was gagged.

"I've been trusted to deliver you a wicked message that will greatly change your future." the old man was wearing gloves and forced his head into contraception made of leather straps, tightening it around him. He left little more than a very mild pressure on his skull before the minutes dragged on to feel like hours and his senses slowly came back.

A feeling of pure pain clung to his left leg and he realized something was happening. It felt as if someone was hitting it with a hundred hammers simultaneously. What could possibly be happening? The old man showed up in front of his eyes with the same expression he had the last two times he saw him.

"You seem to be under the impression that you are allowed to do business wherever you please. This is erroneous," he said this far too quickly as if he had memorized it. Then he reverted back to his usual speech pattern, dragging out the words as he released them.

"My task has been fulfilled. You are now free to go. Please take your friend with you." the young man felt the strap around his head loosen up and his desperation was quickly replaced with anger. He was free and fully aware. Now he wanted revenge. He sat up as quickly as he could, preparing to react. But what he saw quickly made him stop in his tracks. His rage soothed and the pain in his legs quickly returned. Quickly grabbing the covers over them to investigate, the young man realized something:

He no longer had any legs of his own. As he pulled the covers he found a large amount of dried blood under his resting place. And then, he recognized Vinnie's new pants. He would have thought something but he could only weep.

A figure materialized beside him wearing a faint smile. It was that old man again. He was smiling and it was even creepier than when he just looked void. "I see you are still around. This is wonderful."

His leather-clad hands quickly grabbed for his face and rammed it on the bedpost. The toe-curling sound of bone breaking was followed by the steady gurgling of a man drowning in his own blood.

The last thing he saw was the old man leaving through a door with a glass pane on it:

George Cabresi, MD

The breeze gently waved an American flag on a rusty pole. The old man's door slammed itself shut as he closed the window. Humming a cheerful tune he reorganized some things on the front desk.

Pens made their way to the left under his righteous hand. On his other hand, he held a small plastic bag with a pair of leather gloves inside. The tune halted only to dial something on a rotatory dial. Slowly, he savoured the words as they left his mouth:

"I'd like to talk to Madame Amélie, please." his free hand was still reorganizing things on the table. His meticulous gestures arranged every single object in sight until there was only a small square note of white paper in the exact centre of the desk.

Picking up a single pen without disturbing the others, he prepared to write. This was clearly no ordinary call. It had been silent for far too long. By now, a few minutes had passed. The man was completely immobile, standing right beside a leather-clad office chair with very few wooden details. The dusk that covered the skies was starting to fade into darkness, but he didn't seem bothered by the darkness.

Suddenly, like thunder on a summer night, a voice broke the silence. "Good night, this is Madame Amélie." a French accent complimented a very poised approach to dialogue. Whoever was on the other side was formal. Naturally so, but something seemed off. Her tone, her greeting, how long it took her to get to the phone. All would've risen questions, but George was clearly no stranger to these interactions.

 

"Amélie, it fills me with great joy to hear your voice. I have something I must tell you that mustn't wait any longer. Could it be that you have the time to lend?"

"Of course, my dear. Just let me know the time and the place and I will be there to cleanse your soul."

"I'd love if we could meet right here, at the office. In two hours would be perfect."

"I'll be there, Doctore. Have you been working long hours again?"

"Very much so. You know I only call you after stressful endeavours on the job. It's never easy to lose a patient."

"Of course, my dear. It never is. I'll be there."

 

The old man put the phone down and grabbed the doctor's bag by the door. He made his way outside and closed the solid wooden door with an audible thud. The locking mechanism, however, was never employed.