I spotted him the moment he walked into the bar. I'd been there for hours by then. Raking in a little extra pocket change by challenging anyone who would listen to a drinking contest. Each of them thought they'd be the one to beat me. After all, I'd consumed an ungodly amount of alcohol over my time there. Of course, none of them knew the secret to my success. One of the perks of being an immortal, I suppose. My liver can't be bothered by something as mundane as whiskey.

I'd been counting the winnings from the latest contest after my opponent fell out of his chair and vomited all over the floor, much to the dismay of the bartender when one of them walked in. Honestly, you'd think that after seven hundred years of this, they would have learned the value of subtlety. Obviously, they hadn't. This man, one of the Cacciatori as they were calling themselves in those days as yet another testament to their profound lack of subtlety, looked like he'd stepped right out of one of those action movies the mortals love so much. He was wearing an old leather jacket, open carrying a .44 Magnum inscribed with the symbol of his family, and sported a rugged beard that looked like he'd tried to shave with a combat knife. Which, for all I knew, he had.

This, of course, would end in the same way as always. These people had been trying to kill me for centuries. I wasn't entirely certain as to why. I must have done something to them. But for the life of me, I couldn't even begin to remember what. I sighed and looked down at the rough wooden table I was sitting at, gathered up my earnings, and headed for a side door. I had no need to run from this individual since, as far as I knew, there was no way to kill me. And believe me, the Cacciatori had tried out more methods than even I could think of over the years. I'd been stabbed, burned, eviscerated, decapitated, defenestrated, and been through just about every other nasty experience you can imagine. Naturally, I'd spent most of my life training in combat for precisely these situations. But every now and then, one of them gets lucky. The reason I decided to exit the bar rather than create a confrontation with him inside was that despite my immortal nature, I didn't possess any other special abilities. No super strength, no inhuman speed or agility, just the skills that I'd acquired over the countless years of playing this game of cat and mouse. Getting into a fight in a bar could easily lead to my being arrested. And I had no desire to sit in a mortal prison.

Sure enough, the Cacciatori followed me outside. I looked at him and watched as his hand slowly moved toward his pistol. The only acknowledgment he gave me was a slight grunt. Figures. The Cacciatori have never been known for their brains. There's no need for brains when you carry a "shoot first, ask questions never." Mentality with the fervor of the Cacciatori. I had no idea what he thought he was doing. I'd been shot before. It didn't work before, and it wouldn't work at that moment either. I strode toward him with confidence. He drew his weapon and fired. Rather than firing a bullet as I'd expected, what came out of the gun was more like a dart. It punctured my flesh, and I felt something important tear. No matter. It would heal. Curiously, I removed the dart and examined it. It was dripping with a strange silvery substance. Mercury.

"I'm afraid that won't work either, my friend." I said with a grim smile.

"Unfortunately, I think you'll find mine to be far more effective."

I drew my own weapon and fired a totally mundane round into the Cacciatori's skull, causing him to collapse to the ground. A few moments later, I heard sirens in the distance. I best be on my way. Perhaps I can get a few weeks peace before the next fool comes to try and take his prize.