The big clock tower was chiming midnight as The Man In The Crooked Top Hat patiently watched the city of New York through the wall-length window of his vast apartment. He had been waiting for a long time, yet he was still sitting-- perfectly straight--on a large throne-like chair of dark, polished wood. His sharp elbows rested gently on the ornately decorated arms of the chair and his skeletal fingers were steepled, stretching his thin, paper-like skin across his bones in a way that would make even the most skeptical of people question his humanity.
“E-hem,” came an exaggerated cough from the shadows at the back of the room.
“Ah,” sighed The Man In The Top Hat, without turning around, “Baron, you really are a man of your word.”
“That I am sir,” The Baron boomed in his rough, Texan burr that heavily contrasted with the thinner man’s soft, English sough. “I said I’d come and here I am. I believe you have something for me.”
“Yes, Baron,” The Man In The Top Hat whispered reluctantly, “Though I am afraid to let it go. It is of utmost importance that you keep it with you at all times. If this got into the wrong hands…”
“I know sir, I won’t let it out of my sight,” The Baron promised as The Man In The Top Hat slipped a small velvet drawstring purse out of his pocket.
He placed the bag in The Baron’s outstretched hand. “The most dangerous weapon in the world,” The Man In The Crooked Top Hat whispered, “The Bulletless Gun.”
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