The Mysterious Case Of Graham (Warning! This piece is slightly graphic!) The air was stifling. The Sun bore down on Graham like a laser with such pinpoint accuracy that it didn't affect anyone around him. Perhaps he wasn't wanted here. He certainly felt that way. The Mexicans swarmed around him like flies around meat. He wiped his glistening forehead with his sleeve. This was not what he had expected at all, these bustling crowds, shouting stall keepers and strange, almost taboo festivals. Standing there in the intense heat made him wonder why he even came to this damned country. Slowly, he made his way down the sidewalk, squeezing through the mass of cheering foreigners. The incredibly loud “music” of the parade was getting to him, and he decided that it would be best to get back to the hotel. It wasn't a brilliant place. Holding only 2 stars, it stood between a small take-away restaurant named A La Vina and a grotty carpet shop. The walls were peeling off, revealing the shabby hollow wood beneath, which had somehow been supporting this place for nearly a decade. Broken stone steps led to the splintering wooden door, which was embroiled by curves of rusted metal. The reception, if it could be called that, was a little desk at which sat a young brunette girl. She was pretty, but spoke absolutely no English. Near the desk a long, seemingly never-ending staircase ascended into a dark corridor, which held just 3 rooms. And in one of these rooms was where Graham would be living for over half a year. Finally, he reached the cursed place. Stumbling up the stairs, Graham was glad to feel the cold air against his skin. This tiny building, however gloomy, crumbling or disease-ridden it was, provided him with a safe haven. It was a blessing, he thought, to be back here again. Shoving his greasy hand into his pocket and shuffling it around a bit, he eventually felt the lukewarm steel against his palm. He inserted it into the lock on his rooms door, which was a mouldy old entrance to say the least. It creaked open as he pushed it, carefully, in fear it would fall to pieces before him, then he stopped. Something was not right. Peeking through the crack in the door, he could see his suitcase and its contents sprawled over the floor. He definitely didn't leave it that way when he arrived this morning. No, he was a very tidy man. He wasn't afraid... Just worried. He had no idea who could have done this - perhaps it was some hooligans from the fete outside, or maybe an angry housekeeper who hated the English, or maybe... He took a deep breath, and barged through the door. A suited man sat in a chair in the corner of the room. He had a gun, and the barrel, which was fitted with a silencer, was pointed directly at Graham. Graham barely had time to blink before he felt a searing pain in his arm. He winced, then screamed in intense agony. Another bullet pierced his chest, then another in his shoulder. A fine red mist decorated the door, which was now shut behind him. Graham fell to his knees as the man lined up another shot. A hole appeared in a crimson explosion between Graham's eyes, and he collapsed, then lay without twitching.