The Bronze Monkey is on the seedier side of Savannah. Driving past the tourist traps on River Street I can see people laughing and talking. Even at this hour the tourists are packed into the shops and restaurants. Stupid people! Don't they know that the real Savannah is in places like the Bronze Monkey?
The parking lot of the Bronze Monkey has the usual amount of cars, parked as though the patrons were already drunk or stoned when they arrived. A fog always seems to hang over this area of town.
There they are. The usuals, some are engaged in meaningless muffled conversations, while a few of the Neanderthals are watching some dancer
A stale cloud of cigarette smoke is hanging over them. They don't even know I've come in. It's always like this. Things are never the way I think they're going to be. Maybe that's why I'm doing this. I've taken a corner table. Where is this guy? Our mutual friend said I would know him when I saw him. There he is, at the opposite corner table. There is something different about this guy. May as well get this over with.
"You Stone?"
"I'm Pat, the one who ask for your services."
"Yes, I'm your man."
"I need someone killed."
Why doesn't he say something? My insides are shaking as I say the next words. "I want you to kill me"
