Business As Usual

Hello! All right, well, this is my first real short story, so any reviewing will be amazing. Not much else to say, except maybe that it gets better and better as it goes, just keep reading. I would of done it in seperate pages, but I don't wanrt to upgrade. However, I did divide it into chapters for all of you. Enjoy, and review, I want to know where I stand.

Oh, one more thing, if anyone has any little ideas or little things they'd like to see in a story, a certain character played out, a plot, etc, feel free to let me know. In fact, feel free to message me.review anytime, good or bad. I like to get responses, even if I don't agree with them. I'd love to make more of these, I just have no muse right now (school kills it).

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Chapter One:
Business of Quent Wolfe

It was a rather cold day that one October, the streets were encased in the damp, wish-wash of a common early morning London shower, the mists of the night before still hanging over the cramped cobblestone streets like a suppressing wave of darkness and calm. The city was all but deserted, saved from total loneliness by a few coach drivers and their steeds and a couple of stray cats hunting for breakfast. It was just about time, as the sun began to stretch over the horizon with it's golden rays, for him to get to work.

Quent Wolfe pulled the girth on his horse - an aging chestnut, tight, hearing the creature suck in loudly, snorting in quiet protest and tossing it's once great head. Patting the mare on the shoulder, he moved along and stepped up into the front of the carriage, taking his leather whip in hand. With the clicking of his tongue and the tap of the tool on her rump, his dear old friend began into a loping walk - her stride had never held the elegance same after that accident a about a year ago. Quietly he cursed. The high-payers wanted a fancy horse, one with pride and bright eyes, not some nag about ready to lay down and die.

"Just one more year, dearest, and we'll both retire...." He coaxed her softly, gently, letting the reins slacken. She knew the way anyway, it had been the same one for almost twenty years now. With every moment that passed, more and more rooms were light, more and more people got ready to head out. And he had it perfectly timed, he'd be just passing the house when his target was rushing out the door. He would be in such a hurry, thanks to some less than divine intervention of Quent himself, that he would even settle for this old girl. Of course, Quent had come out a bit earlier today, brushed his dearest off, made her look more presentable.

He rounded a wide turn, barely having to even move the reins at all. Ugly as she might be, the mare was an excellent cab horse, hardy and tough, but sweet and level-headed enough not to start. Humming softly to himself, he listened to the clop of hooves as a taxi was a large black horse passed, it's coat glimmering and it's rider looking just as refined. Quent snorted. Soon, they'd all end up looking him them, grizzled and weather-beaten, but no more reliable. Easing back now, he slowed the nag down, feeling her change her gait, making it less and less reaching. Eventually, she stopped.

Beside them was a stately home, two stories and covered in fine brick, with many windows. Quent sighed sadly, wishing he could have a home like that, if just for the day. All he had was a wooden shack on the outskirts of town, barely able to make ends meet as it was, much less have servants catering to his every need. With a casual look to his left, he found towering Big Ben, his elegant hands pointing out the time. Ten minutes to seven, not long now. As if on a tight schedule, he heard shouting inside the house, something about the bedroom door being locked from the outside (Quent chuckled quietly, smirking at his stealth and genius).

Another few moments and a very tussled and very agitated man came out of the house, his clothes having been thrown on, the wrinkles still visible. He glared at the taxi with smoldering eyes, as if daring Quent to kick up his nag. Piling into the cab without a second glance at who the driver was (Quent had hid his face, just in case he was known to this man), he spoke, his voice the sort of self-righteous, overly-confident one that made Quent skin crawl, his stomach turn and his blood boil all at once.

"Driver, you know where the parliament building is, correct?" He was answered with a quick but exaggerated nod. Though the man didn't seem to notice, for he was already speaking again by the time Quent reacted. "Good, then take me there. If your quick I'll add an extra three pounds." Wow, three pounds. Quent kicked up his horse immediately, if was all he could do but smile venomously and cackle. Stupid man, he thought, didn't he realize who he was? No amount of money in the world would get him out of what he was about to go through later on today.

Chapter Two:
Business of the Day

The ride was a mere ten minutes or so, but John Ferrier's - that was his name - feet might of been on fire, at the speed in which he dashed out of the cab, slammed a fistful of decently sized bills and coins into Quent's hand and entered the building. Now that his adversary was gone, Quent sighed and felt himself shaking, willing his body to not spring into action and capture that man right now, for everything he'd done. No, he told himself, he would get what he deserves soon.

Quent sat in the cab the entire day, only exiting once to kindly lessen the girth on his horse, the only thing he could trust these days. A light shower came down an hour or so past noon, but it was of no concern. He sat and he waited for hours upon hours, ten of them to be exact, yet he never felt a twinge of boredom or the slightest bit of stiffness, he was much to excited for that. He found, just thinking about the deed he was to commit made adrenaline race through his system, made his muscles twitch and his pupils dilate.

After an eternity, the four tones of Big Ben rang through the streets, which were considerably more busy, the sort more acceptable for such a large city, as if that eerie stillness of the early morning never existed. Women ran back and forth, doing their errands and getting their supper items before their husbands came home after a long day's work. Quent sighed sadly, watching as a young family - father must of been off for some reason, crossed the narrow street warily, laughing and joking all along. He stared at the women, the mother of the two children and wife of the tall man next to her. How he wished Margaret was still there, that he still had someone there...

His thoughts were destroyed rudely as John slid into the back of the cab again. Anger spiked through him, and he drew a rather loud, strained breath. how cruel, it was, that the one man who caused all this grief would not only be in his cab - actually, that was rather fortunate for his purposes, but be the one to break his thoughts of his Margaret. Not anyone else's, most definitely not John Ferrier's Margaret, his.

Chapter Three:
Business of the Night

Instead of going home to his wife (a thought that made Quent's blood boil), John Ferrier instructed the cab driver to do something very out of the ordinary for a government official, especially at this time of day.

"Driver, take me to the nearest bar."

It was music to his ears, what a pleasant, perfect surprise this was! Quent had planned to suggest this in a few moments later. If only he knew what was in store, the meticulous planning...

"Are ye sure, sir?" He put on a mask of fake concern, fake hesitation in his tone. After all, John Ferrier, as he learned in the weeks before, loved to bark orders rather than suggestions, feel he was powerful. "Yer a mighty big official 'round h're, it wouldn' be good for yer... competitors" He carefully mis-pronounced the words, adding in an accent that didn't exist, slurring his words. "To see ye drinkin' like us common folk?"

"I am quite sure, driver." His one was snappy and harsh, clearly he'd had a difficult, long day.
Perfect, so perfect.

"All right, sir, meanin' no offense. Should I take ye' to a... less popul'r place?"

"Yes, that would be quite nice. Thank you."

With that, Quent got out, tightened his horse's girth and they were off, taking the busy roads at first, slowly making there way into the outskirts of town. Naturally, Quent had the entire way mapped out, the exact bar picked, the exact way of going made. The pulled to a stop in front of the place - a shady old place, with a half-broken sign hanging lazily over head.

"The Boar's Head?" The man looked revolted as he stared at the sign.

"It's not the best place, sir, but they won' kno' ye." He tied the reins to his cab to a tree nearby and patted his dear horse a fond farewell before following the official into the bar.

Chapter Four:
Business of the Damned

Quent sat at the bar on a wooden stool and ordered his pint of beer. The place was just as bad as it looked on the outside, cramped, dusty and with the heads of moldy, dead animals hanging from all sorts of places. Luckily, it was still quite early to drink, and there were only a few people, each dressed like Quent himself, with whatever they could afford. Perfect, this only kept getting better. None of these folk would care if John - who looked very out of place with his suit - suddenly disappeared, and none would even suspect him, Quent. He looked too, well, normal.

He waited and waited for the official to make him move, to go to the men's room. After a few drinks, a very full, but totally sober John Ferrier got up and walked definitely towards the room, followed quickly by a ghost of a cab driver. Once inside, he waited for the official to do his business before turning and bolting the door closed with a bar he'd stashed in his trousers since this morning.

"What are you doing, man? Let me through."

"No." His own voice surprised him, how chillingly calm and determined it was. He knew this one here was smart, and wasted no time. In a single smooth motion that seemed quite astounding for a man pushing fifty years of age, he banished a knife. The seven inch blade gleamed dully in the lightly, casting strange shadows over Quent's face. He changed his stance, a more confident one now that he held the weapon in hand.

"John Alexander Ferrier, do you know who I am?" He sneered at the start using the man's full name caused, when he'd never even been given his first.

"No, I don't. What are you doing? Are you mad?" The official, too, was calm, as if this sort of thing was the norm. Quent supposed it might of been, the government just about murdered itself every morning anyway, with all the unrest these past weeks. He watched as John backed away from the blade, closer to the corner of the room. The grin spread wider.

"You should, 'cause I know you an awful lot..." A snicker as his prey opened his mouth as if to demand a better explanation, but the moment his eyes fell on the weapon, he stopped completely, shut his mouth and waited.

"Wha-what? Why are you doing this? I have never wronged you..."

"Margaret is my wife." Chilling and definitive, how could someone doubt such a convicted tone? Yet, this stupid man did and shook his head. Idiot. It made Quent smile, made him chuckle like some mad person, the horrible sound echoing.

Chapter Five:
Business of the Blood

"Impossible, we've been married for a year..."

"She was mine, at least, until you came along. We were in love. Yet, the day she met you, everything was over. She moved out, she filled for a divorce and I never saw her again. Now," His he'd a calm tone all the while, forcing it so, despite the screams of rage he wanted to emitted. How horrible life had been without dear Mary! No one to make good meals, no one to talk to him after a hard day, no one to kiss and love, no one to speak of children to, to go to mass with. All there was left was an empty void where his heart had once been, the organ ripped out and chewed before being spat back onto the street.

"I've come to return the favor... you sent me to Hell, now I 'm going to do just the same..."

John Ferrier was shaking now, violently, his face turned pale as the truth began to dawn on him, all the things that had happened since that one day last May, when he became a husband. The cab crash with that old brown horse - who he now recognized Quent's, the flaming newspaper being thrown into his bedroom window, the threatening letters, and now this. Again he shuddered, unable to speak. Ferrier didn't have a chance. Quent struck before he even knew it, and he was pinned on the cold floor, staring into the eyes of a madman.

Quent could feel his heart pumping, feel his eyes widening, his breath coming in short, excited gasps. He cackled manically, so he would finally do it, he would finally have his revenge. The man beneath him struggled, but he only gripped tighter, feeling the other man's two hands claw viciously at his wrist- the one with the knife. The pain meant nothing, his own blood meant nothing. He passed the knife to the other hand, throwing it and accidentally grabbing the blade.

It didn't matter.

His blood trickled down now, staining the steel red, making his hand slippery and the handle hard to hold. Yet, he took Ferrier's lack of thought and action for a second, and plunged, deeply. A tremor shook through their bodies, one of death, one of raw power and excitement. Ferrier was dead, stabbed right in the heart, his eyes open and glazed. Caught in the moment, Quent stabbed out his eyes, too, laughing all the way, feeling his saliva run down his mouth, felt the pain now.

It was over.

After a long moment of stabbing the dead body, Quent got up, his mind strangely clear and serene, as if that one deed cleared all his anger, his hate, his emotions. He was tempted to wipe the blood on his pants, but resisted, it would be too conspicuous. Walking to the sink, he washed everything. His knife, his hands, his wrist, his face from the tears of joy and power, everything. Once dried, he walked slowly out, not even bothering to move the body from it's embarrassing, spread-eagle position. After all, this idiot was not worth one shred of the dignity he tired to project.

Quent put on a mask of indifference, sat back in his spot and acted as if he'd been ill, asking for a drink - a strong one. Once he gulped it back, he walked calmly out the door, playing the barman a generous tip. Just as he climbed into the cab and clicked his horse into a walk, a masculine scream filled the building.

Chapter Six:
Business As Usual

John Ferrier - Minister of Finances, was found dead yesterday afternoon in a bar restroom. Ferrier was thirty-eight when he died, and leaves behind a wife, Margaret and two children, Thomas and Sandra. He was stabbed in the heart as well as the eyes, and was laying flat on the floor. Anyone with information...

Quent read the article three times over, chuckling all the way. He'd decided to skip work today. Instead he spent it scrounging up as many papers has he could find, as many as he could buy. He would skip dinner today, but it was a small price to pay for this - this was pure gold. Carefully, diligently, he tore the entire article out and placed it into a wooden box he hid beneath his bed, patting it tenderly. Once every single scarp of information of his task - including any and all obituaries or pictures - was placed, he locked the casket and hid the key high atop his bookshelf, in the back where no one would think to look.

Finally, with all this cataloguing done, he put on his tattered jacket and walked outside, behind the house into the meager pasture where he'd turned his dear horse out to rest and play. She came to him without being called, lowering her head so he could put the bridle on. Instead, he merely climbed over the fence and patted her lovingly. "No need for that, my dear, we are finished being cabbies. Tomorrow, sweetest, we leave town - to another place, our business is done here."

With that, he let her be and spent the rest of the day reading books and other things, packing his bags and throwing all possessions he had into his cab. Every scrap of anything, even wood taken for the stable and house, was grabbed and crammed into the back seat. Except the box, of course, which sat beside him in the front. He did in fact have his mare work, but only for a few moments, to pull the cab to the back of his property, where it would be safe until the morning.

The next day, in the grey-pink dawn, like the one before it, he saddled her up and headed onto the road. But, this time, he turned left instead of right. Times were good, the streets were empty and his heart was suddenly so light, suddenly so whole! It was over, he was free to live his life, free to find a better job, to be a farmer as he'd always wished for, Quent loved the country. So, just as he was about to exit the big city, Quent saluted a passing police officer, who nodded back, before kicking his dearest into a trot.