The meet was planned for midnight under the wharf. It was a moonless night and she wore a red dress, shivering slightly.
The mist settled as the scene unfolded. Characters appeared from the fog, and the sudden blaze of a match illuminated glistening gold.
The softly ticking lump was opened on the workbench that just happened to be standing at the ocean's edge (cough) and a pristine 3035 beat inside, its rhythms mimicking her pounding heart.
She felt the sweaty wad of cash between her breasts, deliciously hidden.
Waves lapped at the shore and somewhere a sea lion farted in pleasure, the aroma of digesting salmon drifted with the fog.
The watchmaker removed his loupe, turned his head and nodded once to the buyer, cigarette smoke obscuring his features.
"It's good".
She held out her arm and the watchmaker slid the heavy band over her wrist, and clasped it shut.
Only then did he realize... the band was missing three links.
A SHOT RANG OUT!!! Clutching her heaving bosom and its sweaty wad of cash, she cried "No! Noooooo!!"
The watchmaker quickly checked his pocket Rolex Parts Manual and quoted $550 per link, and noted that three were required.
And just like that, the deal was over. Staggering from the scene into the night, bloodied from the grazing wound and jiggling ever so nicely with her hidden wad of cash, the buyer disappeared like a ghost into the night.
The watchmaker gazed with subtly disguised annoyance at the Alaskan meathead that had delivered her to his midnight rendezvous, and shook his head.
Holstering his still smoking Walther, and wondering why he had shot her, he turned and disappeared into the night.