"That son'uva bitch is alive," Henry threw down the newspaper on the counter, grumbling about having to do shit on his own in order to get things done properly. Close, so very close, he thought as he rang the bell, also on the counter, probably more times than necessary. "How the hell can I get some bloody fucking service here?" An old man emerged from an office behind the counter, looking rather bored and worn down by the years. Henry looked not too far from irritated and pompous, as always. He was on his own for tonight, which was fine by him because he didn't feel like dealing with his idiotic, good for absolutely nothing servants. They may as well have been dead to him (which some of them were). Tonight was his time to figure out where to go from here... Jean Beaudelaire's assassination had not been completed, therefore Henry saw it as unfinished business between the two of them. He had to think of something fast, something effective, a master plan that was fail-proof. Taking the room key, which was given to him under a pseudo name, he grumbled to himself as he stepped out of the check-in building, on his way towards his room number. Rain fell noisily as Henry tread through the dirt, mud and gravel. He turned his head, suspicious, but there was nothing ahead of him as far as the naked eye could see. The unimpressive motel was empty, with the exception of a couple cars in the lot. Inside his room, he sat at the table by his window with the curtains still closed, emptying out his pockets filled with his keys, money and a good stash of drugs.