Just a little something I wrote one night back in March :) I'm actually really fond of this one. I would like to develop it into a large story, but the plot would have to be horribly complicated and I'm not sure I could come up with something good enough at the time, so maybe in the future :)

Mr. Jennings was a man of many sides-multiple personas comprised his personality. He was a different person depending on the factors. He pieced his surroundings together like a formula to calculate the correct personality to take on. All of his strategies, diverse and complicated, were formulaic. It was a branch of math that only he knew, one that involved the highest understanding of psychology and the human mind. But Mr. Jennings didn't believe in psychology. After all, every human mind was different. It was impossible to really know what a person was thinking. The old man was just good at reading the signs.

Time had withered his frame, but it was easy to tell that he was once a man that was not to be trifled with. Most people that knew him feared him still, for the passing of years had done nothing to mar his reputation and record. Those he commanded did what he wanted whether they wanted to or not. Whether they knew it or not.

The 79 year-old swirled the Coors he held in his hand, watching the almost-black liquid spin inside the mahogany-colored glass. Despite the company he usually kept, Mr. Jennings was a beer kind of guy. Wine did nothing to suit his tastes—it was merely part of the disguise.

He was currently sitting in the old, rickety wheelchair that he was so well-known for. His grandson pushed him to buy one of those electric, speedy, "more efficient" contraptions, but he refused every time. He got around just fine, and did not need a computer to lean on. His elderly arms hadn't lost all their muscle, after all.

But his grandson meant well. After all, Mr. Jennings was all he had left, besides an unpleasant aunt in in Missouri. The boy's parents had died in a fire at their suburb house when he was three, but he was lucky enough to be pulled out. Mr. Jennings had willingly taken him in, planning on passing his estates down to the boy. He was seventeen now, but a rebel like his mother. Mr. Jennings had never approved of his son marrying that renegade filly, but didn't waste the time to try and stop them. He knew from the start that there would never be anyone else for his son. And he had come to enjoy her company, in the end.

His grandson delivered when it really counted. He may have been rogue on one side of the fence, but he played his part perfectly in his grandfather's world. Mr. Jennings had no doubt that the young boy would be able to handle the responsibilities he was about to take on. He could just picture him becoming a multi-billionaire. Even if he did sleep with the secretary.

Three solid knocks at the oak door pulled Mr. Jennings from his thoughts. His gaze continued to bore through the window, watching the hundreds of people scurrying below, as the door opened quietly. Soft footsteps approached and a figure came to stand beside the old man. A sophisticated voice sounded.

"Is there something about that street you find particularly fascinating?"

Mr. Jennings let a wry smile cross his face. "Why, yes, Ruben. You see, when I find myself confronted by a troubling situation and I've no way to get past it, I like to observe the many citizens of Boston and try to predict what their stories are. For instance, that man in the Versace suit could be a CEO who secretly lives a double life as the ruler of a drug empire. He could be on his way to meet with international traders about the next big shipment. He's answering his phone now—he could be conversing with a contact about a narc in his ranks. Tomorrow, he could be dead or in custody or held for ransom by a competitor in that vicious world."

The visitor let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "You are a sixteen year-old in an old man's body, Alexander."

His reply was raspy with age. "Our physical actions may be rendered by our age, but we can think and talk as young as we want to."

Ruben slipped his hands into the pockets of his slacks. "You obviously decide to dabble in both ends of the maturity spectrum."

Alexander Jennings pursed his lips. "It does well to keep this foreplay interesting, wouldn't you say?"

The younger man ran a hand over his gelled, dusty-brown hair. "It's certainly been a good time. But that time has come to a close."

"That it has."

Alexander knew that Ruben had drawn his gun: a meager pistol equipped with a silencer. Yet, he continued to stare out the window at all the ignorant faces below. He had already made peace with this situation. So far, everything had gone down as he'd predicted it would.

"It didn't have to come to this."

Mr. Jennings shook his head lightly and pursed his lips. "It was going to either way and you know it, Ruben."

The end of the barrel pressed against his left temple. He continued to watch the citizens of New York below.

"I've got people everywhere, Alexander. They're like chess pieces, moving wherever I tell them to. Your ways of deals struck with handshakes and a man's word are coming to a close, and your death will be the fatal blow. You can't trust anyone anymore. You have to take what you want in order to gain a higher place in the hierarchy. In fact, some would say I'm doing you a favor for taking you out of a world that has no place for you anymore." Ruben finally ended his spiel with a shot chuckle.

The old man sighed. "My name will forever be heard in this world. Whether it be in terrified whispers of the past or boisterous recounts of good times depends on the people saying it. But I will never be completely gone."

"It's been fun Alexander."

"That it has, Ruben."

The pop of the gun only reached the ears of the man who fired it.