Confucius

He typed at a fast pace but not hurriedly, he of all people would never rush his work. This time he’d picked a nice little coffee shop to complete his work in, no one every looks in the extremely mundane places. His speed and accuracy is vital to his career. Freelance criminal. From the mafia to lowlife scum came to him with schemes, and whether good or completely idiotic he took them, well for the right price anyway. They all knew him as Confucius. Even his government file, a slim one ironically, had only his alleged date of birth and his fake name. There wasn’t even a photograph of him. No one knew what he would look like from day to day, no one could track him or frame him, he was thorough. Between his intricate accents and his frugal disguises he could be anyone, anywhere.

Confucius was finishing a neat job for the mafia, all that was left was to cover his tracks. He wiped his laptop clean with a total reboot and sat waiting for conformation on his pay.

Of course he’d already secured his money in one of his many bank accounts but he still had to wait for the mafia to meet him and tell him the obvious, Mission accomplished.

He rarely met with his employers but tonight was different. He was curious to see who the mafia would send to meet him. So he stayed in the shop and waited, sipping a latte.

Tonight Confucius had on a brown wig and fake bushy brows, colored contacts (also brown) and a false nose completed his costume. He wore loose cargo pants, a sweat shirt, and an overcoat. Luckily the night was cool and he got away with wearing a pair of gloves as well. Simple but effective. 

A short man with squinty eyes and a pair of thick circular glasses entered the coffee shop at a quarter to 10. He hobbled to the counter and ordered a drink, putting his overheated laptop in its case Confucius waited for the man to join him. The small man shuffled over to his table and sat opposite him.

“Good evening, Confucius.” He rasped in an attempt to mask his thick Irish accent.

“Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?” asked Confucius with a slight English inflection.

“McHale.” The man drawled.

“What does the Head say, McHale?” Confucius asked with no urgency or nervousness.

“Success. We will call upon your talent in future.” McHale said, sliding him a slip of paper across the table. On it was the code an average person would need to access the money due. Confucius however had no need of it, but pocketed it anyways.

“If I am needed I will assist.” Confucius said rising.

McHale nodded silently and Confucius left the coffee shop.

There, he’d met with success yet again. He made his way through the sleeping city to an apartment complex squished between a pizzeria and a convenience store. He slouched in the building nearly dragging his computer case on the floor. He leaned heavily on the walls and made slight groaning noises as he heaved himself up the stairs. In the dim light you could make out that he’d swapped his attire, replacing his brown wig was a slick white one and in place of his brown brows, unkempt grey ones, he’d done this during some point of his commute.

His laptop case touched each stair as he awkwardly climbed them to the second floor.

He fumbled with his apartment key and after a moment of grunting and jabbing finally fit it into the lock, another long minute passed as he struggled to turn the skeleton key and open the door. Once inside with the door locked and bolted, Confucius removed his coat sweatshirt and pants. Underneath that he wore a white undershirt and thin pajama pants. He sat in front of what most people would call a vanity, but was his number one work station. On the vanity was face paints, hair brushes, combs, powders, sprays, colored contacts, wigs, hair extensions, oils, lotions, salves and more. All spread out on the vanity and on the surrounding shelves that he installed, mainly to hold the wigs, but also the accessories like fake noses and ears, also the finger prints that he’d replicated to frame certain persons. Removing the grey wig from his head with care, and the brown one from his laptop case, he put them on their appropriate manikins. The brows had to be pulled off gentle or they would be ruined and he had to remove his bald cap as well. Some think you can wear a wig on top of your hair but Confucius knew that it would simply slide off unless you wore the proper equipment. He placed the brows in a container and stared at himself in the mirror. It was on a rare occasion that he saw his own face. He had in-between length blonde hair, it wasn't long but it wasn't short and it stuck up just a little from his head. His hair was thin and if you ran a hand over it, it would bounce right back up. His eyes were a startling shade of blue, if he walked around without a disguise on he’d be captured within a few business days.  What would surprise most people was that Confucius looked like a high school student. He had no facial hair and was slim and boyish, he couldn't have been out of his teens, and yet here he was an infamous criminal. 

Enjoy!