Whoever coined the phrase “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” never encountered a one Jim Moriarty.
Biological weaponry had been an on-again, off-again hobby of Jim’s for quite some time, and one he was not in the least opposed to putting into use or up for sale. He had fine-tuned many toxins, transformed viruses, rebuilt bacteria into something completely new, created deadly mix after deadly mix of things otherwise harmless to men, and all in his free time, all in an effort to elude the ever-present boredom lurking about the edges of his consciousness.
There was one mutated bacteria he was especially proud of. He’d toyed with Tuberculosis for quite a while, until, finally, he was able to turn it into… something completely different. It wasn’t contagious, but the second it entered a person’s system – injection or ingestion were the recommended methods – the bacteria would get to work on disposing of the victim, usually within a matter of minutes. Since it was a (heavily modified) bacterium, there was very little that would indicate foul-play. For all a mortician would be able to tell, the person had been ailing with a strain of the disease, undetected, until it ultimately claimed their life. The typical strain, which affected the lungs, was only the first to be toyed with, as well. The other more common strains – causing heart attack or stroke – were also modified accordingly and all three were, in Jim’s not so humble opinion, the perfect sort of weapon for undetected assassination.
He dubbed it, in no small act of modesty, ‘Moriartium’.
He’d even offered it to a rather high bidder, for a convenient assassination of some unfortunate diplomat or other who had crossed the wrong man. Demonstrations had been performed, and… and the idiot had laughed and walked out, claiming it a useless toy, questioned the use of it if there was no recognition to be had.
The idiot did not recognize that recognition was not a desirable trait in an assassination.
Jim had been right stunned. He hadn’t said a word as the man had walked right out in front of him, hadn’t retaliated, hadn’t shown him just how “worthless” his Moriartium was. And now he was downright humiliated.
That wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at all.
The killing time had passed, and revenge was in the works. All the emails, all the texts imploring “Fix it for me, Jim” went ignored as he paced around his flat, restless, like some sort of caged animal. It was different from his usual pacing; usually it was from boredom and was accompanied with vocal complaints and incessant checking of technological devices to see if maybe, just maybe, an interesting client had elicited his services. No such actions were taken now.
No, now was the time to plot, now was the time to formulate the perfect plan to get his revenge, salvage his pride. Death would not come easily for the bastard, if death came knocking at all.
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