A Grim Reunion

A Grim Reunion

It was a lovely spring day outside, and somewhere a chorus of birds sang sweetly, but Greg Rizzo did not hear them. He was much too preoccupied to notice.

Greg stared up at the familiar house. The house was exactly where the master had said it would be. Every direction Greg had been given had been exact, down to the number of steps leading up to the door-13. Greg let out a grim laugh, that was appropriate. Before he had arrived here, at 156 Superior Ave, Atlanta Georgia, 30030, he had half hoped that the directions the master had given to him would prove incorrect, that which he already knew. But the master was never incorrect, and now here stood Greg, in a scene from his past, about to kill his best friend. He thought back to the master's orders.

"This one's at 156 Superior Ave, a Barry Tanner…A friend of yours?.... Perfect….Looks like his heart is about to give out…. He doesn't bother to lock the door…. Do not let past friendships deter you…. Your compassion must stay quenched….If you still desire life there is but one way to complete your mission…. Destroy him.

Destroy him. Those were the words the master had used. Every other time he'd said kill, but this time Master said, destroy. What a day this was for fitting, albeit inconsequential details. Greg was doubtful that the master had intentionally changed his vocabulary today, but the discrepancy in word choice was oh so suitable. Those "other times", many of them as it were, Greg had obeyed the master without a second thought. Now he was unsure; could he destroy someone he knew? No- more than that; could he destroy his best friend? Greg had thought little of this at first, but now he was nervous; the emotion filled his body for the first time in forty years. Now that Greg was at the doorstep, he felt his hands tremble as moisture streamed between them and the "accursed good-for-nothing apparatus" he now carried- six feet of oak and a crescent of steel. A one-way ticket to the master. Long ago Greg's fingers would have caressed a much different instrument, but this was not long ago, and it never would be.

An ice cream truck rolled down the street, issuing enticing melodies, but Greg Rizzo did not hear it. He stood fretting until finally, he got control of himself. Enough with untamed nerves; a thousand times he had entered this house, now he had to do it but once more. Compassion and fear were no longer his to feel, not for someone like him. He turned the knob and walked into the house.

Barry Tanner's living room had not changed at all. The simple love seat in the corner still sagged to the right, as it had ever since January 1st, 1969. Against the walls there stood oaken shelves lined with books. The History of Jazz, The Great Gatsby, The New Era of Music, and several Bibles were all arranged in no particular fashion. Opposite the couch loomed the cluttered piano Greg still remembered, with his old friend's compositions strewn across it. Next to the piano sat stacks of vinyl records, hundreds of them. Greg took these familiarities passively, instead lending his focus to a large window in front of him, for at it stood the man he was commissioned to kill. If Barry was startled by his unanticipated guest, he did not show it. In fact, his attention seemed focused on a pair of starlings outside. Distracted as usual. Perhaps this assignment would not be as difficult as Greg had predicted.

Suddenly Barry spoke, keeping his eyes on the birds outside. "You know, Greg,"

Greg flinched. It had been years since he'd heard his name spoken by friendly lips. For a second he allowed himself to be comforted by his old friend's words, but then he hardened his emotions to the sensation, doing his best to ignore Barry's familiarity.

"I've heard that there is a secret chord that, when played correctly, pleases the Lord so much, that he would turn the instrument from which it is played into gold."

Greg let out a forceful breath and stared at Barry's back. Cornered by a man with a weapon, Barry Tanner still spoke of music. He hadn't changed a bit. Against his better judgment, Greg was compelled to reply, "What use is a golden guitar? It won't play." Barry's words had been comforting, Greg's were painful and cold. His tone was lifeless, a dead thing. Carl knew he was beginning to sound like the master.

Barry chuckled to himself, then gasped for air, holding his chest as he did so. "But what good is a real guitar without its musician?" He let out a light cough, he had yet to face Greg.

"Yes well even then, it's useless, unless you desire