The man was of average height, of slight build, brown hair, there was absolutely nothing remarkable about him that would make anyone pay any special attention to him. Nonetheless, he looked around nervously before entering the White Horse Pub. This was his first job as a hit man and he wanted to be extra careful.

His instructions were to enter the pub, have a Guinness and wait. Someone wearing a blue suit with a gold lapel pin would meet him. While he waited, he surveyed the walls, which were white boards that people from everyone had signed or left notes. Silly twits, he thought.

Two hours and three Guinnesses later, he decided he had been had and gave up.  If he had any idea who had called him he would pay them a visit. However, he would just have to place his ad again and see if someone else would initiate him into the world of hit men.

As he stepped onto the street, he felt steel bracelets clasp his wrists. With surprise, he looked at the policemen. Realization dawned as one of the cops grinned and said “Gotcha!”

Written for Sunday Photo Fiction.  Special thanks to A Mixed Bag for the photo prompt.

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