Bad, bad hombre

"Bad, bad hombre. You've been such a bad, bad hombre Nigel. Do you hear me Nigel?" Miguel asked the dying man has he levelled the weapon- his trusty Browning .45- pointed at the man's glistening scalp.

Nigel- the dying man- moaned in pain. His mouth was foaming and blood was dripping from a large cut that traced from the side of his head to his neck. He was hanging, suspended by chains wound around his ankles and another set of chains around his wrists. His left eye was badly swollen where he had taken a beating.

Miguel made a tick, tick sound with his tongue and teeth. He was shaking his head from side to side like a father regretful of his child's actions. He was smartly dressed in a white tuxedo, black shirt, black tie, black glistening shoes. He had long silver hair that reached to the middle of his back. He looked to be in his mid-forties. When he talked, he had a strange mix of Italian, Jewish and Spanish accents. He wore a rather large, gangsta styled, shining gold chain around his neck, for effect. He was the local crime boss, very territorial and very, very mean. It was the Mafia in him, hmm?

He took one more look at Nigel, levelled the Browning at him and shot him point blank. Just like that, no second thoughts, no remorse. Nothing.

Then he grimaced when he saw the little drop of Nigel's blood on his cuff. He swivelled and left the room for one of his underlings to clean up the mess. Miguel had bigger problems to worry about. A little fly like Nigel wasn't good enough. War was coming and goddamn did he know it. He made the same tick, tick sound again as he crossed  the threshold into the nothingness that laid beyond.