IN THE DARK of dawn along the docksides, a somber, somewhat swarthy figure moved slowly and apprehensively around a line of weather-beaten warehouses. In the dim pier lights, the man scurried around stealthily, ducking in and out of shadows searching for something in the cargo holds. The dank stench of the place was overwhelming with the pungent smell of piss and excrement wafting from the alleys.
The curious fellow wore a soiled black leather jacket, and as the dim light of the wharf revealed his face, it seemed sinister in appearance. His olive skin appeared Arab in origin, possibly in his late forties, and on his neck was a deep offensive scar running up from his shoulder to his cheek.
Glancing up, he noticed a weather beaten sign reading, “Warehouse 13”. He turned around again; made sure no one was watching and picked the lock.
Once inside, he removed his jacket and started walking amongst a row of heavy wooden crates. A few minutes later, he found what he was after; a crate with red-stenciled letters on the side reading – “A.D.C.O.”, He grinned to himself, grabbed a crowbar nearby and immediately began prying open the lid.
In that same moment, in the backdrop, an ominous elongated shadow appeared moving lithely along the walls behind him. He sensed something, stopped prying the lid and listened. He thought he heard footsteps at first, looked around, and to his relief saw a rat scurry by. He sloughed it off, continued prying the lid.
Upon opening it, he fell to his knees elated, examining its mysterious contents, while in the background the elongated shadow continued to move, inching closer to him.
Suddenly in the darkness, a pair of hands rose above him, and he looked up with sheer terror to find they were holding a long razor-sharp Malaysian parang sword, and in deft, lightning speed, the blade came down in one swoop slicing the man’s neck. There was a dull thump, and the man’s severed head rolled horrifically across the blood-spattered floor.
