Dusting out:

Erik glared up at the flashing neon lights coming from the "Homo Dark Club," he was disgusted to have to return to the sweat-filled chamber of Slavic degeneracy.

Erik carried two steel briefcases in each hand, his face was obscured by large dark sunglasses, he took a nervous deep breath before entering the club. Panning the darkened room slowly--Erik watched as several poorly-dressed people danced with each-other to some east-European pop music. He briskly walked on a catwalk glinted with the dim-red neon lights of the club which made him feel as if he was the centre of attention--the mysterious stranger who had to be either up to no good, or ready to make a preposterous proposition to an authority of power.

As he made his way past several frisky couples pressed up against walls he slipped into a small alcove, knocking over a perverse ceramic statue of an endowed man. Erik quickly stepped out and hunched over, feigning heaves as he headed for the restroom onwards to his destination. As a cruel-faced security guard marched past him he peered up and jogged to the door that the guard was closely protecting.

Entering quietly Erik placed one case down on a bench by the door along with his glasses, he grinned heartily and spread his arms as he walked towards the balding man with a beard reminiscent of Lenin.

"Zdravsvutye!" Erik said, grasping the man in an embrace.

"It's been so long since we've seen eachother!" The man said in Russian.

As friendly formalities took place, Erik's demeanour grew pernicious.

"It's only ten thousand. Why could you not afford that mate?"

"Look, look. I've tried to expand myself a bit more with the nightlife scene. You know how it is..." The man stammered dartingly.

"But you're not expanding with the nightlife scene. Why'd ten Chinese women turn up in a shipping container at the port of Miami?"

"But what does that have to do with me?" He shrugged.

"Well you see when I heard this I was interested as to why they were coming here and all, twisted some ears and I end up in a Thai restaurant with a waitress telling me that they were offered jobs to work as /private servicers/ at what they called the /Homer Dar' Club/"

Raising his hands in a joking manner, the man laughed and said "You got me bro, book me Mr P.I.".

With a grin, Erik opened one of the briefcases--it was empty.

"What's this supposed to be?" He said, glaring into the empty case.

"You-you're going to pay me to keep quiet, alright? One million dollars." Erik said with a purposeful nervously shaky tone to his voice.

"You have to be horseshitting me bro. Who the hell would care about some illegal immigrants, I can make private servicing a legitimate job if I want to. You're a dog asking a king for a fief, and this dog is horribly stupid... I mean really, why the hell would you even consider trying to get me in on this, you're nothing to me and you're whining about a tiny little issue that no-one would give two shits about. Jesus Christ, get your cases and fuck off."

The guard from before stepped into the room, the stern frown still on his face--he must have been listening in to their conversation. Erik slid on his sunglasses and took grasp of both of the cases and quickly walked out the door, as he stepped back onto the catwalk and paced down it he picked up an empty bottle of vodka conveniently lying on the ground. Stepping out of the club he dropped the empty case beside him and opened the other, taking out a small vial labelled with the obscenely long name: "Propan-2-yl methylphosphonofluoridate". This vial contained Sarin gas which was obtained through a long series of trades and talks with ex and current Iraqi militants.

Erik slid a respirator over his face, he was unsure if the Sarin gas would be able to enter his body through his eyes and due to this he felt a lump in his throat. He sweat and shook as he carefully lowered the thin vial into the bottle, rising up Erik pushed open the door and tossed the bottle into the dancing crowd, immediately darting out the moment it released from his grasp.

The purpose of this attack was to reinsure that the wave of anti-immigrant violence wasn't being perpetrated by just the lower-middle class of America, he decided that Sarin was suitably grandiose to highlight that.