The icy-blue-eyed Siberian prostitute snorted a twelve-inch line of a cocaine/mdma mixture off the chest of a fatally poisoned professional killer who would be dead in 2 hours, 12 minutes, and 54 seconds. At once her pupils dilated into shiny black dinner plates. Then she jumped onto his body, dug in, and rode hard, embracing the serotonin and dopamine cocktail dumping from her brain.
The assassin smiled strangely while watching her perfect body as it flung a cold, salty sweat all over him; but his mind wandered elsewhere. He thought of the omnipotent Russian mafia family of one of his recent victims.
He knew that after the hit, they had extended great effort and much capital to locate him, which they had, finally, in a cold stone hotel nestled uncomfortably in the heart of the Czech Republic.
He knew they knew of his appetite for exotic intoxicants and unconventional ladies-for-hire.
He knew they’d sent her – another professional, in disguise – to kill him with an eyedropper full of a slow-acting yet exceptionally nasty neurotoxin which she’d put into the pale green bottle of Van Gogh Gold absinthe he’d been drinking from for the last hour and a half.
Without warning, she seized up, spasmed atop him, then froze. Her face turned white, flushed to red, then went blue as a pink, frothy purge bubbled from her mouth. Blood gushed out of every opening. Her eyes twitched for a moment. Then she toppled to the cheap, cigarette-burned carpet.
He knew she should have watched him more closely while he prepared her drugs.
The assassin reached to the nightstand, grabbed his oral chemotherapy medication, and tossed it from the bedside window. Then he smiled again, though not so strangely, lit an unfiltered cigarette, and reached for one last drink.