He came to the party dressed as death, with scythe that glittered and gleamed in the light, it even looked sharp. “Don’t touch, it just may bite!” said the man in the Kabuki mask. It didn’t match, but somehow, he made it all work out. His robes were black and tattered and sparse, but one noticed in the dark, that these, only hung down to his knees. Freedom of movement was what he would need, but no one noticed, it seemed.
Everyone who was anyone had come to the masquerade, everyone on the list was in the parade, of masks and gowns and promenade drowns of chit-chat and gossip knitters-pick. The man in the Kabuki mask did not much care, who was who, nor why they were there. He was on the job, hide in plain sight, with his scythe and dim light, it was easy enough to move and dance, and plan and flit, from one to the next, he never missed a step.
This, it was, the worst part of his job, in tedium he mingled amongst in the throng. As surely he was capable of holding each girl in thrall, and some of the lads too, if he’d bothered at all, but it was base and droll, as they coaxed and cajoled, to discover just who was behind the mask, but instead, he had smiled at last: “I should have come as Pirate Capt’, for I’ll never tell.”
An intrigue amidst the guests, “Is it such a secret? Are you some hideous mess?”
He tapped the death-mask on his visage at last, “Dead men tell no tales.”
She giggled and laughed, and tipped her glass, fleeting and dizzy and avast! Me hearties, she wouldn’t last, for the punch, you see, had been tainted to each and every last.
The man in the Kabuki mask, sighed and deigned another dance, as he realized, he should have come as Father Time! Images of old Druids and Father Christmas danced through his head, if only they had known what sort of dread, ticked away in the night, then surely this ball would have been in a fright. He smiled again, the man in the Kabuki mask, dressed as death, and waiting for the last drunkard to have drunk his wine. Bacchus, he thought, would have been proud, to the glut that scattered around.
At longed last he heard the chime, from Old Father Time, the grandfather clock on the landing announced, that the servers were at last allowed to bow-out. He had arranged for them to leave, or collateral-damage ere they be, but it mattered not to the man in the Kabuki mask, this was that, and tit for tat, it was all the same, in the name of this game: work, it seemed, was at hand at last.
He grinned behind the mask, though no one even thought to glance, as he shifted through the crowd and to the parlor door, a flip of the latch and he whispered: “Never more.” The lights rapidly flicked out, set by set, and now the scythe was whet, and swept from this one to the next, and painted a splash across the walls in red. Jynx was in his element at last, killing each and all to the very, very last, an assassin behind the Kabuki mask.