DEVIN BIRSE Disorder

Percival Spark was the sort of man you read about either in talkative crime novels or romantic poems. He was a verbose and intelligent bachelor in his late twenties with a penchant for sharp wit and a poetic dialect oft reserved for those of a particular artistic inclination, one based on recent reviews of his new collection. He had it in spades. He was also a hitman, the sort with a sharp shark-like smile and deep piercing cat-like eyes and a voice that cut through the air as it laid down its intentions. He was in many ways a man of duality. He liked to think he was a good poet, a pretty good neighbour and a fine friend. He also felt as though he was a merciful executioner. He was always polite, only killed those who were morally questionable, and always fed their pets and left a wad of twenties like any respectful man should.

“Where are we even headed?” He shifted his head to look in the back of his car, his tinted blue glasses reflecting the face of the large man in the tassel-covered jacket.

“Boss said we needed to meet him at the ranch.”

“We ain’t gonna?”

“Yep”

It was a forgone conclusion. Ever since the boss had landed in Jugband it had been an inevitability. They had to meet the family.

He leaned back for a moment and exchanged a glance with his other passenger. Her eyes briefly glazed over his before moving back to her book. He flipped through his cassettes till he landed on one he liked. It was going to be a long drive.

Percival considered himself in many ways a deeply Byronic man. He felt he’d inherited it from his father. That and his poetic talents. Though to call his father’s music poetry would cause intense debate in most circles. He found out around age sixteen that there was a high chance he was related to Byron, and ever since then found himself relating more and more to the dead lord. “Byron was hedonistic. I mean, he had sex with his half-sister.” He’d often think to himself, “By contrast murder doesn’t seem so bad.”

He slipped in the cassette and was met by a brief glance from the woman to his side. He didn’t bother to read it; he wasn’t in the mood. The music began to flow, the drumbeat