The Barbary Coast always seemed alive despite the hour or the weather, sailors from every corner of the world found refuge in the dozens of seedy brothels that peppered the area. Every vice could be uncovered within its layers, from the openly obvious such as alcohol and prostitution to even deeper and darker desires that required you leave part of your soul in exchange for services rendered. Hidden from view was the icy underbelly where the slightest wrong move would cost your life in the blink of an eye. Just sampling the atmosphere, the sounds of depravity crept under the surface of its decadence; a faint odor of expended opium weaved through the stench of stale beer and heavy tobacco that, of which, visually hung in the air diminishing what little light consisted in the taverns and brothels further adding to its treacherous flavor.

The stranger that wandered into the dank, dark saloon had blended well with the patrons of the aptly named 'Hellfire Inn'. His clothing and demeanor exuded a cold and hardened aura that almost magically, warded off the muggers, thieves, and murderers that was dotted throughout the room. It was not the first time he had been there, that was two weeks ago after arriving in San Francisco from Ecuador. Originally from Paraguay, he had traveled through Bolivia and Peru to catch the areas only steamship to North America. He was on a quest that had began over six years ago, when at the age of fourteen he was wrenched from the comfort of his family and thrown into the army to fight the ever advancing forces of the Triple Alliance; Brazil, Uruguay, and Argentina military forces was tipping the scales of the War and steadily advancing across the country. His father had been inducted the same way only to disappear among the casualties. He learned to kill and as he did, his conscience, bit by bit, eroded. By the time Paraguay surrendered and he returned home it was too late, his entire family, along with his small village had vanished, consumed by the war. Consumed also was his soul, hate and revenge became his substance, a deadly arsenal of methods ran hand in hand with his ruthlessness, physically intimidating, his heavy muscled exterior hid an amazing quickness and flexibility. He had abandoned his name years ago and was simply known as 'The Tarantula', a moniker he earned while building a mountain of kills and a gigantic reputation throughout Southern and Central America. This was his baptism into the international spotlight, the very public assassination of the Emir of Aziz, and, he figured, by his trips conclusion he would be forever cemented in history as the world's most dangerous man.

But he hadn't done it alone; his mysterious benefactor had arranged his transportation to San Francisco, a place to stay, a target, along with blueprints of the opera house and the floor plan of the Secret Service's protective detail. But the rest was all him, preparing his roost, the perfect kill-shot, and the brilliantly simple escape.

The intimidating stranger moved, almost serpent like, through the tables, his eye for detail swept the smoke-filled room as he found the empty, curtained booth where he and his mysterious backer had met weeks before.

"So nice to see you again," Tarantula greeted while taking his seat across the table from the masked man. The assassin was proud of the fact that he could speak English, he studied diligently both that and French knowing that it would be of great benefit if he were to become an international killer.

From the other side of the booth the masked man drew the curtain and answered, "My 'employers' are very pleased with your work so far and…" from the table he began to pour The Tarantula a drink, "…look forward to the completion of your mission."

"Salute." Never taking an offered drink alone, Tarantula raised his glass to the masked man and waited until both drinks were in hand to finish his toast, "to a thousand tomorrows." They touched glasses and swallowed the harsh liquid; Tarantula wiped his mouth with his sleeve, while the mysterious man brought his drink from under the cloak of his mask and gently placed his empty glass upon the table.

"Your next target lives in Denver," he handed over a train ticket, "his name is Quinton Vale, wealthy cattle-baron who has…"

Tarantula interrupted without raising his attention from the ticket, "I don't care what he has done, that he will have to answer to god."

"Very well," the masked man produced a small case, "Inside you will find all the information you'll need to acquire your target, and some spending money." He slid it to the assassin.

A wide grin flashed upon his face, "Many thanks," and The Tarantula took the bag and proceeded to leave, the mystery man stopped him short, "You may have a problem," he alerted.

"His name is James West."

"I have not heard of him."

"He is the man you've framed and he has escaped the authorities," he faced the assassin, "he is a dangerous man and he is going to find you."

Tarantula scoffed, "You tell me how dangerous he is after the sailors at the end of the bar try to steal my bag." And with that he situated the curtain to better the masked man's view and started to exit the saloon.

Just as he had predicted the salty thugs had positioned themselves in Tarantula's path, each one brandishing a weapon. Two had daggers, another shown the rounded blade of a cargo knife, the last smashed the bottom of the empty whiskey bottle that they had finished, and its jagged edges glinted in the lamplight.

"We'll be taking…" the closest of the thugs began, twisting his dagger between his fingers and motioning for the bag with his other hand.

Before he could end his statement the thug was dead, Tarantula lashed out a front kick that landed in the middle of his chest, sending the thug cannon-balling backward, through a partition and onto some stairs behind it. Even though his kick was incredibly powerful, it was the ten-inch, spring-loaded blade that automatically shot from it's casing, strapped to Tarantula's boot and hidden under his pant leg, which punctured the thug's heart.

Catching his would-be attackers by surprise, Tarantula exploded into the next sailor whipping his other foot around, it's blade shot out severing two fingers and shattering the glass weapon into a thousand slivers. Before his foot touched the ground, Tarantula shifted his hips and threw a roundhouse with the same deadly effectiveness as his prior strike, this blade happened to cross the sailors throat, severing his trachea and both arteries in his neck.

Everyone watching moved to safer locations in the bar, mesmerized by what was enfolding before them. Tarantula barely evaded being stabbed as the other sailors jumped into the fray; the assassin trapped the attackers arm under his own and spun against the elbow's give, the horrendous cracking of bone, followed by a shriek in pain from the sailor filled the room. Tarantula plucked the falling dagger from the screaming sailor's hand and silenced him, plunging it deep into his side.

Without missing a beat the assassin spun with the last sailor's lunge, his coat sleeve catching most of the slash. The lone sailor crashed into a nearby table but he remained standing and quickly tried to recover. It was over before he knew it; as he faced the assassin he was met with a flawless back kick and the lethal blade that followed it.

The Hellfire Inn never had a moment of silence as long as the night The Tarantula walked out its swinging doors.