The following tale marks the beginning of the MWT fiction section, which will be launching as soon as I've finished the code for a new navbar.

All he had to do was take the money, and walk out the door.
The guitar felt heavy. He had strong arms, and the Ibanez had been with him longer than anything or anyone. But tonight, it might as well have been made of stone. The crowd was, as always faceless. From Tyler’s perspective, the same four men and women danced, kissed, fought, and drank in every corner. At some clubs, they had suits and dresses fit for renaissance ballrooms. At others, they wore muscle shirts, and resembled rioters more than patrons. Tonight, they wore black clothing and spiked collars. Tomorrow (if there was a tomorrow for him), it would be something else. But it was always the same.
Except for tonight. Tonight, one man stood out. An island of inactivity in a sea of motion.
The guitarist tried to ignore him. He told himself he was being paranoid, that it was all in his head. As far as anyone outside the band knew, it was just another drunken metal concert.
But then the bassist, Linda, looked at Tyler. She was silent, but her expression spoke volumes. She saw the stranger too, and worried.
The man in the red tuxedo looked upon Mordred Grey’s club with a look of plain dissatisfaction. He was clearly out of place: the loud music, the strafing lights, and inebriated youth all bothered him. But none of these distractions held his attention for long: he hardly took his eyes off of Tyler throughout the entire show. The cold eyes seemed to measure him, to analyze him like a piece of strange meet. Despite his stern expression, he seemed to clutch something in his right pocket for dear life. Tyler’s imagination filled in what the metallic gleam from that pocket indicated.
Tyler tried to maintain a positive demeanor as he played, but inwardly he was starting to veer towards panic. This man must have been sent to kill him. The game was over.
The rest of the band had warned Tyler against playing for Mordred Grey. He was the most notorious cheat in the music industry, and had plethora of unsavory connections. They had been even more aghast when they’d heard that Tyler planned to steal from him.
But Tyler had simply laughed at their concerns. Tyler could be easily categorized as the type of man that believes he defies categorization. In his world, consequences were something that happened to other people.
Now, he stood in front of a guitar case full of unmarked bills. He would have traded all of them for an emergency exit on stage.
He cursed inwardly, as the song reached the final chorus. He’d simply stayed too long. The inner artist had subverted the work of the thief. Leaving would have been the smart thing to do. But Tyler’s intellect was wholly dedicated to composing the future and regretting the past. Analyzing the present was beyond his abilities. And now there was a man here to kill him.
“That’s all, folks. Goodbye.” said the guitarist, gripping the microphone. For a moment, he chuckled. The last word had become a rote action, but tonight it had meaning.
The final chord echoed through the room.

Now, the real show began.
The musicians packed up the tools of their trade quickly and efficiently. They had brought along three guitar cases. Two held matching Ibanez RG’s, guitars chosen more for speed and superficial appearance than sound quality. One held a five string bass. The last held enough money to last them a lifetime.
Each member of the group lifted a case, exchanged words of warning, and picked an exit. If Mordred had caught on to them, than it would be best to create confusion.
It was just Tyler’s luck to get the case filled with money. If he was caught, he wouldn’t be able to deny a thing.
As he stepped of the stage, he made eye contact with the man in the tuxedo. He had secretly hoped that the potential assassin had moved on. But the red specter waited in the same spot he’d occupied the whole night.
The world moved in slow motion.
Tyler wove through the crowd in a serpentine pattern, trying in vain to lose his pursuer. The man in the red tuxedo matched him every step of the way. Everyone seemed to do their best to get in Tyler’s way, but the crowd seemed to simply part like the red sea for the predator. Eventually, he broke into a run, shoving aside partygoers. One unfortunate couple ended up being knocked to the floor by the case full of ill-gotten funds.
He waited for the critical moment. The end of his personal song. The gunshot, the stab wound that would close the curtains.
Instead, he heard the click of the pen.
The man in the suit beamed. “Hello, my name’s Garret Spurs. My daughter’s a big fan of yours, but was too sick to make it out tonight. Could I get your autograph? It means the world to her.”
The musician searched for words, but couldn’t find any. His hands seemed to act independently of his brain, taking the pen and writing his stock signature through sheer muscle memory. By the time his mind caught up, the red man was gone.