The man was dressed in an expensive well cut charcoal black suit with a patterned silk tie. The suit was top of the line, Saville Row. Nothing but the very best for the very best, his mother used to say. He wore an equally expensive pair of brown Italian loafers, leather, custom made. His titanium and diamond watch slapped against his wrist as he ran, his snake skin monogrammed briefcase forgotten a while back. His tie was askew, something that was completely irrelevant at the time, seeing as a mad man with a hockey stick was chasing him in the basement parking lot of HIS hotel.
The man begun regretting his decision to not hire a bodyguard or two the moment he had first spotted the Mad Man. He was dressed tastelessly in all black, cheap black jeans, black leather jacket over a black t-shirt with a pair of black sneakers. He wore a pair of gloves, leather, black, of course, his right hand tightly gripping a hockey stick. That in itself isn’t a cause for alarm. People had different notions of fashion and decorum and another thing his dearly departed mom had taught him was to live and let live.
The man was fine with that, seeing as he too had his own idiosyncrasies. He ignored him, turned to his luxury sedan, key in lock. He had half turned the key when instinct made him twist and turn, the hockey stick crashing into the driver’s side window. He turned, admonishing ready. The best thing about being rich, he answered to no one, and almost everybody beneath him can be made to pay. The words froze in his mouth. The Mad Man stood at a hulking six foot two, outweighed and outmuscled him. Society rules ceased to exist in that moment, in its place, the law of the jungle. Instinctively, the man shrunk back. He saw the Mad Man swing a second time, making the decision for him. He dropped his suitcase and he ran.
He saw the pair of Nissan X-Trails, parked next to each other and he ducked in between. The Mad Man was still following him, the hunter to his prey, his steps slow, unhurried, making no other noise save for his heavy foot falls and the rustling of clothe as he walked. He crouched and leaned into one of the SUV’s back tires, closed his eyes and willed his heart to beat slower. After a few seconds of failure, he clamped his mouth shut with his own hands, one over the other, and waited, his heart threatening the confines of his chest.
He had considered making a mad dash for it, for freedom, before remembering just how big the parking lot was, and how unfit he was, compared to his hunter. The only logical choice had been to wait him out. Somebody was bound to show up. He couldn’t call his head of security, thanks in small part to the fact that he carried his phone in his briefcase like every other civilized gentleman. He spent the next seconds, half in agony, and half cursing his life choices. He strained, listened. There was nothing, save for his beating heart and the loud ticking of his wrist watch. He tried, unsuccessfully, to convince himself he was gone.
Glass shattered as he got up, a car alarm went off and a whimper escaped him. His stomach muscles clenched in anticipation, his heart beat hiking up even more, if such a thing were possible. A line of sweat trickled down his fore head. He blinked away the sweat, the salty solution watering his eye in response. He tensed, waiting. Fight or flight. He waited.