Our thirty third meeting never really happened. To him at least.

He had stopped coming. Entirely. I had waited, three weeks, the longest a job had ever token a jackal, before making up my mind. He was not coming back. All the sadness I had felt over these past three weeks had morphed into anger. I had stormed out of the room and slithered over to the nearest intermediate. I had token the highest paying job available and, fully clad in Venia, I had slaughtered. There was no other words for it. The Alligator slaughtered his prey in a violent, hungry fashion. I had slaughtered mine in a hateful design. None were alive, none were whole. All that was left of most was blood. Oh, the blood. My signature, my art. It was smeared in beautiful arcs on the walls, was tainting the floor with the taste of my sins. It was dripping from my body as I relished in it. It was my drug, it was my lifeline. It was all that Nichol had once been.

That bastard.

He had come into the room I had just slaughtered. Had looked around at the beauty of my work and had turned on his heels. He had not seen me, hidden in the shadows. It would have been so easy for me then. All I needed to do as to extend my hands and Alligator Nichol would be dead. Before he even saw it. I did not. I could not. I stepped out of the merciful shadows, disregarding my art before jumping out of the window.

The Angel of Death was back. In hate.