I've always noticed things other people don't. Unusual things. For instance, I was eight years old when I realized I fit the profile of a serial killer.

Oh, I wasn't wielding a bloody knife over some neighbor's decapitated dog thinking, "Wow, this is really fucked up," or anything like that. In fact, in some ways, finding out was kind of a relief, one of those 'Oh, now I get it' moments you have from time to time. When you're a kid genius wandering through childhood full of questions about the things that you're feeling, or even some of the things you're not feeling, well, the whole thing can be pretty scary. So if you stumble upon an answer that explains some of the things you do and why, it doesn't necessarily matter what that answer is, or the potential ramifications of it. Knowing is a relief, plain and simple. I would much rather know something than not.

And after spending some time looking up words like 'sociopath' and 'psychotic' in the dictionary, as well as leafing through the copy of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders that I'd stolen from some hospital therapist, I knew that, despite fitting the profile, I didn't actually want to be a serial killer. Where's the future in something like that? Most of them got caught, and half of them apparently didn't even really understand what they were doing, or why. Where was the appeal, seriously?

I mean, I had spent my whole childhood attempting to understand myself. What could I possibly have in common with those impulsive idiots who did what they did without a thought as to why? Was I really going to end up like that?

Well, I did fit the profile, didn't I?

Even the act of stealing the diagnostic book from the hospital drove home that particular point. Spur of the moment, I made up a name for the nurse at the front desk, spun some story about having left a coloring book in the therapist's office, and walked out of the hospital with the manual tucked in my knapsack without a shred of concern or regret. I cracked it open, and what did I find? The first three symptoms describing a sociopath were deceitfulness, impulsivity, and lack of remorse.

More than a little ironic I suppose, but the conclusion was hard to argue against. I definitely fit the profile.

Oh, and don't get me wrong. Even though I was a foster child, I didn't have one of those childhoods . . . the kind you hear about in the news rags. You know the ones - pre-teen boys wandering into the woods to perform 'experiments' on live squirrels, or stuffing a dog in a rucksack bag and lighting it on fire just to see what would happen. I didn't see any point in doing stuff like that. Sure, I could have done those things, and it wouldn't have bothered me all that much. But it really comes down to 'why?', when all is said and done. Would stepping on a box of mewling baby kittens make me better, or stronger? Doubtful.

I decided I wasn't going to be like that, a slave to a bunch of useless or abnormal impulses. And so, I wasn't, and I didn't do those sorts of things.

Instead, I focused on things that would make me better, and stronger. I learned everything I could about 'Antisocial personality disorder', and spent a few years trying to figure out what was broken inside of me and why. When that didn't pan out like I'd expected, I began to look at the symptoms themselves. Once I'd figured out which applied to me, I began to work on them, control them, make them less noticeable.

After a few years of doing this, I realized that some of these 'symptoms' were in fact significant assets, given the proper set of circumstances. In the right industry, a guy could go far with defects like mine.

And so, at the tender age of fourteen, I decided on a career as a hit man. I ended up becoming one of the best, made quite a name for myself, and was even invited to join an elite fellowship of assassins that scared me right down to my toes. Then, after a few years spent getting to know some of my coworkers, I decided I'd drop out of the fellowship entirely in the interests of self-preservation, change my face, fake my death, and become a nobody.

Literally. Joe Nobody. Kind of catchy, I think.

Average height, average build, with average looks. I'm the disappearing man, the guy you just can't seem to notice, the unremarkable face in a crowd quietly watching you. Chances are, I'm the most dangerous person you'll ever meet.

And all because of something odd I noticed one day, almost thirty years ago.

Really, I only mention this to point out the fact that I'm really good at noticing things. Things that other people don't.

For instance . . .

I noticed the guy in the baseball cap immediately. Right from the moment I laid eyes on him, I could tell that the guy walking into my bar was going to try to start something.

To be fair, my bar is almost always empty, so simply walking through the door is usually enough to arouse my suspicion. Still, this guy had several other things going for him. His cheap leather jacket hung from his shoulders with a familiarity that only comes from wearing the same garment exactly the same way for years and years. From the three days growth on his face down to the badly scuffed and broken-in boots, everything about this guy radiated a grimy sort of violent purpose. He felt like the sort who maybe wasn't exactly planning to mug you, but who wouldn't hesitate to do so if he just happened to run into you in an alley somewhere, or if he figured he could get away with it.

Stepping through the doors, he glanced in my direction briefly before swiveling his head around, taking in the details of the near-empty room. The only people in the room besides myself was Nate, who was tending bar, and the very large guy by the front windows who had come in a few minutes earlier.

The large guy was certainly suspicious as well, and I'd been watching him ever since he sat down, but most of my attention was now focused on the guy with the baseball cap. I noticed him, then noticed several other things as well.

First thing - he'd glanced at me, then looked away while doing something different with his posture, as if trying to convince anyone who might be watching that he wasn't specifically looking for me. It's a rookie mistake - if you're a professional, you know exactly where your target is before they even have a chance to see you. I was his target, and he'd just made that fact pretty obvious.

Next, I noticed was what he was trying hard not to look at. His detail-hungry eyes had spent a great deal of time confidently devouring my bar as he sauntered in, but they avoided the front windows completely. Sometimes when intentionally ignoring something, it's as obvious as though you were staring right at it.

And of course, he held himself like a man who was about to do something physical, like he was readying himself for it. I couldn't see any weapons in the customary places, or even the less-than-customary places, which was good. He was right-handed, and wore the sort of rings that suggested he very rarely solved any of his problems through calm, well-reasoned discourse. A striker, probably self-taught.

I came up with a few theories that attempted to explain these things that I was noticing, discarded the most unrealistic scenarios, settled on the most likely candidate, and then sighed softly to myself. Swirling the ice cubes in my glass, I continued to study the newcomer out of the corner of my eye.

He weaved around a few of the empty tables, nodding appreciatively at some of the furnishings and decorations lining the walls, slowly making his way over to the barkeep, Nate, who was standing beside the rows of beer taps. I couldn't actually see Nate's hands, but I knew that one of them was making notes on a pad of paper, and the other was clutching the handle of something very loud and dangerous that was hidden from view.

Nate barely looked up at the fellow, giving him an unfriendly grunt that seemed to ask 'What do you want?'

The man adjusted his baseball cap and then mumbled a question I couldn't hear to Nate, who responded by giving a quick nod towards a menu sitting not far away. The newcomer shrugged, picked up the menu, and opened it.

His eyes went wide after a few seconds of scanning the contents, and he made something akin to a choking sound.

I hid my laughter behind my hand. That reaction never got old.

My prices were about quadruple what even the most expensive and trendy establishments in Baltimore would dare charge. The decor is nice, certainly, but not nice enough to prepare you for the kind of shell-shock that merely glimpsing the menu can produce. A steak sandwich at my place is damn near a hundred bucks, and honestly, it's not even that good.

I don't get many repeat customers is what I'm saying. Which is kind of the whole point, really.

He stared at the ridiculously overpriced items on the menu for a while, perhaps scouring it for something he could order that wouldn't completely empty his wallet. Mumbling something to Nate, he flipped the menu back onto the counter, turned and rested an elbow against the bar, deliberately turning his head towards me. Our eyes locked.

"The fuck you lookin' at?!" he spat.

I've always wondered why people leave out the 'what' at the beginning of "what the fuck" when trying to sound angry or tough. I've never quite understood what it accomplishes.

Leaning back in my chair, I slid my drink to the far end of the square wooden table I was seated at. I gave him a level look, narrowing my eyes the slightest bit.

"Really?" I asked, my tone amused. "That's how you're gonna do it? You come in here, infinite possible lines to choose from, and that's the one you go with? 'The fuck you looking at'? Seriously, are you even trying?"

He gave me a confused look.

"Huh?"

"An equally brilliant and well thought out line. Look, let me explain - you came in here for a specific reason, one that you've made pretty obvious by now. You figure you could waltz in, trade a few curse words with me, get things heated, and voila - violence ensues. Am I right?"

"How 'bout you shut the hell up, before I get pissed off?" he growled, standing up a little straighter.

"Exactly. Now, I could probably avoid something like you're proposing rather handily, but I have to ask myself - why bother? You're not doing this for the hell of it, right? You're presumably being paid, and you don't look like a particularly trusting fellow, so chances are you've already been given the money. Maybe I want to find out a little more about what you're here to do. This means that I probably have to let this play out, see where it goes. So let's say, for the sake of argument, that I want you to go ahead and do whatever it is you're trying to do here." I gestured toward him. "What would I have to do to convince someone like you to forego the 'fuck you's and the various insults directed at my mother, and get right to the action?"

To his credit, the fellow actually stopped and considered. Nate appeared next to him with a pint of beer, sliding it in his direction impassively. A moment later, he gave me a very meaningful and specific look.

I looked behind me and to my left, and then back to Nate, a pre-arranged signal that simply meant 'no'. He nodded almost imperceptibly, and returned to his usual spot beside the glasses.

"Seriously?" the fellow asked, finally. "I mean, you're not askin' me to give up who paid me or nothin', are you?"

Which was more information than I would have gotten from a pro. Silly rookies . . .

"Not at all. And yes, I'm being completely serious." My chair's legs squawked against the glossy surface of my hardwood floor as I slid both it and myself sideways, well away from the table. I crossed my legs in a relaxed manner and regarded him. "Do you need me standing, or can I just sit here?"

He licked his lips nervously, briefly taking off his ball cap and running fingers through his thinning mop of brown hair.

"Uhm," he said at last, his eyes narrowing accusingly, "this is kind of fucked up."

"Oh, I agree," I smiled. "I don't often get things like this happening, and I must admit the details have me burning with curiosity. Still, best if we get about it, hey?"

He paused another moment, then nodded to himself.

"Cool."

That said, he threw himself at me, hands balled into tight fists.

I don't know if you've ever attempted to attack someone who's sitting in a chair, but I'll let you in on something you may not know - an untrained attacker will almost always end up having to lean forward, which, if the defending party has even modest martial arts skills, can easily be taken advantage of.

Not to brag or anything, but I have tremendous martial arts skills.

I timed when his left leg would be hitting the floor, slouched in place and kicked my feet towards his leg in an improvised baseball slide, my heel connecting solidly with the front of his ankle and pushing it back a half foot. He continued to lurch forward, fists loosening slightly as the rest of him began to realize he was losing his balance. His right arm threw a clumsy straight punch at where my chin had been a moment ago.

Grabbing the front of his coat with my right hand, I pushed my chair behind me with my left while simultaneously sliding the rest of the way onto the floor, turning and guiding his falling body towards the exposed table corner as he fell. Gravity did the rest.

He struck his temple against the side of the table, though he missed the corner I was aiming for completely. Despite my shoddy aim, the blow was enough to disorient him. Two quick punches to the back of his head further disoriented him.

Casually, I got to my feet, grabbing the back of my chair while inspecting my attacker, who was now sprawled face-down in front of me. Eyes unfocused and staring at the floor, he was already making half-hearted attempts to push himself back into a standing position.

Using my foot, I bent one of his legs at the appropriate angle, pinning it back against his thighs. Once that was done, I maneuvered the legs of my chair so his ankle stuck awkwardly through them, using the wood of the crosspieces as a fulcrum and lever.

Then I positioned the chair overtop of his thigh, straightened it, and sat down with all my weight.

A strangled, clench-jawed exclamation of pain accompanied the faint, meaty 'thuck' of tendon separating, as his knee was pulled in a direction that evolution hadn't prepared it for.

Standing, I lifted the chair up and away from the fallen figure. He was no longer attempting to get to his feet, and was reaching down to clutch at his brutalized knee, or what now remained of it.

"So," I said, dropping the chair off to one side, "is that it? Are we done here?"

A wailing gurgle through violently clenched teeth was the only reply he could manage.

Grunting to myself, I stepped over the pain-wracked fellow, brushed my jacket sleeves a bit, and reached for my drink. When I picked it up, I was annoyed to learn that a little bit had spilled onto the table during the fracas.

I thumbed a quick gesture to Nate, who nodded back to me and unhurriedly stepped out from behind the bar to make his way over to the would-be attacker on the floor. Knowing he'd take care of cleaning things up, I made my way over to the front of the room, to the spot near the windows.

The large fellow had barely moved during the entire incident, and hadn't even turned to watch while it had been going on.

Sitting down on a nearby stool, I put my drink on the counter next to the large guy's beer and turned to address him.

"Okay, guy. You have my attention," I said, a weary tiredness creeping into my voice. "Mind telling me exactly what the hell that was all about?"