“He’s a, s-serial killer,” the man stuttered, wiping sweat off of his bald forehead with a handkerchief. It was quite chilly in the room – he was sweating from nervousness.
He had never done anything like this before and he didn’t know whether he would quite get away from it. But he had heard from his cousin, Frankie that this was the best man to go to.
That this was the best man to talk to about seeking revenge, without getting your hands dirty. He didn’t know what made this man so terrifying.
He was average height, on the tall average side, thin, and he looked young, he was in his early twenties at the most – so it didn’t make sense to him that this man was the best of the best.
In fact, at his age, fifty seven, it was embarrassing to be asking someone who was practically a child to help him in such a dark matter.
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