He recognized him instantly, standing alone at the end of the long, highly polished bar. Paul Channing, a smug, good looking bastard with the look about him of an Italian porn star.
Mason took a cigarette from the crushed packet of Marlboros in his top pocket and put a match to the end. A cloud of blue smoke hovered around his head like an undulating halo; composing himself, Mason walked over to where Channing sat.

'Mind if I sit here? Mason inquired pleasantly.
Channing looked up. His eyes were red rimmed and glazed and when he spoke the fumes of single malt whisky hit Mason full in the face.
'Sure thing buddy,' Channing slurred. 'Tell ya what, I'm buyin. What's ya poison?'
Mason hiked himself up onto the bar stool and flicked the overhanging ash of his cigarette into the Budweiser ashtray.
'That's mighty kind of ya. I'll have a beer thanks.'
The bartender, hovering within ear shot, hurried off to get the brew and within a minute, Mason and Channing were chatting away like they'd known each other since junior high.

Mason of course felt that he had indeed known the man sitting next to him for years. The private investigator, who Mason had hired to follow his wife, had given him a wealth of information about Channing. Where he worked: Brannigans health club. Where he went for lunch: Dimitri's (often with Mason's wife Madeleine). Where he lived: Grantham place, room 98, third floor. And he had told Mason where Channing could be found, every Friday evening after work without fail: Murphy's bar, down on Brompton Ave.

The two men chatted for about half an hour, idle chit chat, such as what chance did the cubbies have of winning the World Series, and how terrible it was John Lennon being shot like that.
It didn't take much manipulation on Mason's part to steer the topic of conversation around to where he needed it to go, the subject of women.
'The broad I'm bangin' at the minute is one hot piece of ass,' Channing boasted. He hiccupped and took another swig of his whisky.
Mason squeezed his new found drinking buddy for more details, all of which he already knew. She was a married woman in her late thirties, no children. She went to his gym every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon in her dinner break, and that's where they'd met. Her husband, she had told him, was a boring, stuck up prick who worked in sales and could no longer satisfy her. And Channing had been screwing her for six months
Channing leant back a little and placed a cupped hand over his groin. 'I just give the little lady what she needs is all,' he started to laugh like an idiot.

Mason could barely contain the fury that was rising up within him, but somehow he managed to force a laugh himself, and even managed to clap Channing on the shoulder as if to say 'nice one'.
'So what's this hot woman's name then?' Mason needed to hear him say it.
'M-a-d-e-l-e-i-n-e,' Channing stretched out the name as if he were savouring the very sound of it. 'Her name's Madeleine.'
Mason's right hand clenched into a tight ball. In his mind's eye he saw his fist ramming into Channings face, his contorted mouth exploding in a shower of blood and broken teeth.
By a supreme force of will Mason managed to restrain himself; he slipped his hand into his right trouser pocket and his fingers wrapped around the small glass vial. This way was much better.

The two men shared another drink, and then the opportunity Mason had been waiting for arrived.
'Excuse me fella,' Channing slid off the side of his stool and wobbled. Mason went to steady him but was waved off. Channing straightened himself up indignantly. 'I gotta go take a piss.'
Channing staggered off to the rest room leaving Mason alone at the bar. The place was almost empty he noted, and the few people who were there paid no attention to him whatsoever as far as he could tell.
He pulled the vial from his pocket, held it up at eye level and looked at it in the pink, sodium light that flickered rapidly from the Murphy's sign hanging behind the bar.

The vial was half filled with a clear liquid. The P.I had assured Mason that the liquid was completely odourless, tasteless and, most importantly, left absolutely no trace in the system. All it took was two drops.

With a final quick look around him, Mason unstopped the vial and held it over Channing's tumbler. Time seemed to stand still and his temples throbbed painfully. What was he doing? Had he really thought things through? After this there was no turning back. He almost put the vial back in his pocket, could clearly see himself doing so; but he didn't, he thought about how he had felt when the P.I had shown him the photographs of Channing and Madeleine together. He remembered her unheard laughter, head thrown back at some silent joke.
He remembered the burning anger.

His hand shook as the first drop fell with a silent ripple into the dark brown liquor. By the time the second drop fell his heart was beating so fast he thought it was going to burst right out of his chest.
Mason put the stopper back in, took a quick look at the remaining liquid and, satisfied there was enough left for one more dose, slipped the vial safely back into his trouser pocket.
Just in time.

'Sorry to keep ya bud.' Channing said as he took his seat again. 'Wooooeeee, thought I was never gonna stop.' He picked up his glass and took a long pull.
Mason waited nervously. It seemed like an eternity before Channing started to sweat heavily; when his face took on an unhealthy purple tinge Mason knew that the nerve toxin was really starting to take hold.

'Well, I gotta be goin. It's been a real pleasure.' He said.
Channing looked into Mason's eyes. His hand started to pull at the collar of his tailored shirt.
'Naw, really,' the blood vessels in Channing's eyes were starting to visibly burst, turning them a shocking red. 'Whoa, is it me or is it gettin damn hot in here?'
'Must be you,' Mason answered. He turned and started heading for the exit.
Although obviously in distress, Channing must have thought that he was just too drunk and was getting hot flushes; another drink would do the trick.
'Can't ya stay for one more?'
Mason kept a steady pace as he neared the exit. Soon the bartender would be calling for an ambulance as the crowds gathered around, but it wouldn't do any good; within a few more minutes Channing would stop breathing, not long after that his heart would stop.
'Afraid not,' Mason called back without looking around. 'I've got an important date to keep with my wife.'

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