He is a man of many faces, many names, many outfits. Policeman, shady drug dealer, bus driver – he has done them all. Been them all.
He can shrink into any crowd, stand on any street corner, without being noticed. Without even being seen.
Today, however, it is time for a change of scenery. This must be the lowest he has ever sunk. Worse than a bank robber. Worse than a metal patient.
A clown.
But not just any clown; oh, no. A clown at a child's birthday party.
Face painted into a permanent smile, with stars around his eyes. His normally sleek, black hair covered in a sickly green wig. Oversized overalls over his upmarket grey suit.
Standing in the corner of the brightly decorated living room, he curses the day he ever took on this client. He curses the fact that all his crew are too useless to take on this challenge.
The food is served. It is time.
The clown strolls innocuously into the kitchen, not needed for the party any more. The resident cook holds out his pay package, and he takes it, shrugging; then swiftly pulls out a knife and sticks her in the ribs. He then strolls out, whistling. The job is done.
Never again will James Moriarty be a clown. That will be somebody else's burden.